HE COULD WALK, LET alone run, no more, and yet it didn’t matter: He’d made it to the cemetery in Paradise. Now all he could do was to collapse beneath its entry arch and catch his breath—as the crows scattered and the sun continued to sink and the storm clouds gathered in the west. Again, it didn’t matter: he’d crawl the rest of the way if he had to. He knew precisely where they were—by the maple tree, just a sapling on the day of the last funeral—not far from where he lay. And yet, to his amazement, he was able to stand; and thus he used what strength he had left to make his way to their graves.
Nor had anything changed since last he’d been there, including the initial shock he’d always felt when the names upon the markers first jumped out at him: Mary Lynn Crenshaw, Devoted Wife and Mot
