He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going on
for weeks. He had to admit there were
moments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in his
mind. "Eggs," he said. "Bacon." "Course," he muttered. Rationed." Just
for a checkup. They
had no son, never had a son. "Sorry. That was just a
dream I had. But of course she didn't. "Multi-pro," he scoffed. "Well, we got no choice. The current
crisis, you know." Maybe sharper. Maybe.... "Delivery last night, Harry. I took some. "Yes," he shouted. She disappeared. No. And
the gas rationing. No, he'd torn it down. The Shanks had noticed it too. He looked down the listings, and frowned. "All old movies. She said it now. He turned and stepped forward,
and found himself facing the stove. He cut himself short. He turned and
saw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. The bed was
wrong. The windows were wrong. They had only a dozen or so now. She was looking at him. He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He was glad to get up. Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked
about TV and gardens and livestock. "Fine," Gloria answered. "Almost six," Walt said. She was crying. "Harry, please see the doctor." He got up. "But why, Harry, why?" "If you say so, Harry." He left quickly. He
looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. The road
was empty. But once it hadn't been empty. He had to do something. He had to go somewhere, see someone. He headed north, toward town. He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. He
raised his head. They were approaching a fence. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned his
head, and nodded. He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. His head weighed an agonized ton. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. He looked around. He rode that way. He turned back, heading east. He looked back. It took some doing. He stooped and touched it. Sand. And the sand ended. Then he laughed. It was a
sick laugh, so he stopped it. He walked. More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves under
the night sky. It was wet. Salt. He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,
until he could run no more. It was getting light. His head was splitting. Davie. His son Davie. An ocean, where
there could be no ocean. He rode on. He looked out at the ocean, gleaming
in bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. "You broke regulations,
Mr. Burr. He nodded. Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear. Harry looked back. "Yes." "No." His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundred
years old. he asked. "Pete's all right, Dad. "No violence, Dad." "Fine, Stan." He looked at Harry. "Just step this way, Mr. Burr." He didn't resist. He turned, his hand on a switch. "Please," Harry whispered. The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the
switch. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead. Harry stared at him. I have too much to do. The money. So they died. "You survived," the doctor said. "Your wife. One other family in your area. He laughed, high and thin. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa. For an hour. "Diathermy," the little doctor muttered. The doctor gave him two singles in
change. The doctor nodded. Harry said, "Thanks. "You will, Mr. Burr." Harry walked to the door. Harry turned around, smiling. "A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Harry went home. he exclaimed, amazed.