Britannia, NY

Buddy had tried to move on after he found out that the old truck was never going to run again. Not a good idea to stay in one place too long. But something kept nagging at him all the way to Rhode Island.

And then the dreams started up again.

And suddenly, against all good sense, he's back in Britannia. A little cleaner and better shaven than last time, but with the same old army jacket and duffle bag. And a copy of Tennyson's Idylls folded over and stuffed in the pocket of his jeans. And an almost manic glint in his eyes.

He's either figured it all out, or finally gone all the way off the deep end. And damn does he need a drink.

Jim is doing his daily walk around Britannia--he does, every day after school and in the mornings on weekends. The slow steady progress makes his legs shake a little less, he doesn't know why, but it does help, and nobody here laughs at his drunken way of walking, they know him now, and there's something peaceful in that (and Jim has always, all his life, been a man looking for peace).

It's just good. Something always feels a little steadier--not in his body almost as much as inwardly, as though this place (which is his second chance: he believes this as strongly and secretly as he has ever believed anything, that this is his opportunity for redemption) is the magical cure the doctor could never give his mother for him.

He's whistling civil war songs; he doesn't notice it himself.

One of the great advantages of working mainly from home is that he doesn't have to stay at home. In fact, he's gone to the park, armed with his laptop, an extra fully charged battery for it, his iPhone, and a small briefcase of papers. He's mainly just checking figures, though the day is so nice that it's slow going.

Still, he'll get them done, and he's far from complaining. He still gets down to the city about three or four times a month, which means he doesn't much miss it. And he gets to enjoy days like today, out in the sunshine. He must look a bit out of place, set up on the bench with his computer and his coffee. But Ken couldn't care less.

The kid working at Foley's was nice enough to help push the blasted pickup from the side of the road through town and into the lot behind the auto garage. Buddy can't help but wonder what he thinks of a man whose entire life is summed up in a duffel bag and a blanket in the bed of a truck. People seem to get less and less hospitable to strangers with every year.

But the kid is nice and wants to help, like the eager kids who he remembers coming to Army recruitment office to be soldiers, or to the court to be knig-and soon enough Buddy has his duffel slung across his back and is headed for the nearest...somewhere. It seems like a nice enough town, he thinks, maybe it would be worth staying a while.

It's Sunday. Well, drinking on Sundays has been legal for years, right? And Lynn can use a drink. Saturday morning and afternoon she'd worked, and Saturdays were usually devoted to the most uptight parents imaginable--the ones who refused to pull their kids out of school for any reason. Then Saturday evening and most of Sunday morning had been devoted to budget planning. It gave her a headache, but it had to be done.

So, late on Sunday afternoon, after an early dinner, Lynn heads for the bar. She takes the bus, since it's cheap (money is still at the forefront of her mind) and she's conscientious about never drinking and driving. She has to be, as a doctor. It's still early for a bar, so the place is mostly empty. Lynn slides into a stool, leans on the bar with a sigh, and orders a cheap beer. When it comes, she sits up to sip, at the same time turning to survey the room for anyone she might care to speak with.

Nissa Sergeant is sitting on the bike racks outside the library, cellphone held carefully to her ear, head tilted, face serious. She’s kicked her heavy hiking boots off and peeled free of her socks, and her feet swing freely in the air, bare toes pointed down. It’s too cold for bare feet yet today, if Nissa were being sensible, but she’s always hated shoes.

“I understand, Mrs. Levin,” she says into the phone, “You don’t have to apologize for calling me. It’s what this number’s for.” A slight flush of color comes into her cheeks and she ducks her head as if to hide it. “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you very much. God bless you too. Goodbye.” She ends the call, squinting at the little buttons with her tongue poking slightly out of her mouth in concentration, and then folds her hands around it, and sets her hands in her lap.

The shift in balance is a little awkward. She wobbles on the pipe, recovers herself, and sighs, tilting her head back to look up at the sky. It is very bright and very clear and very far away today. April sky. Almost big enough to be Montana’s.

She should get back to her errands.