Glenn Standoff pulled the utility truck over onto the easement, slamming the emergency brake hard against the floor. This is where the report had specified, and he'd spotted it right off. A huge tree-branch hung precariously suspended, endangering the telephone lines directly below. Luckily, he had got here first, before catastrophe could happen.

Sliding out of the cab and setting his hard hat to his head, he sucked in at his cigarette. A swift glance at his watch told him it was nearly seven thirty. There was no sign of his assistants.

"Goddamn Cormic and Mcguire, fuckin' slacker punks!" he swore to the empty tree-lined road. They were obviously going to be very late. They were always late. He might have been late, too, if he'd actually hit that freak standing in the middle of the road in the fog. He took those optional state saftey driving courses seriously. After all, he was a careful, responsible guy, not like those other two assholes. Careerless social blights, good for nothing but filling in potholes. He shook his head. As their supervisor, he often wondered how they had managed to pass the drug test the county required. Hell, if only he had been there to stop them from getting the job. They reminded him of the chimpanzees he'd seen at the zoo once. Damn monkeys!

He took another look at the time, his scowl softening. Nancy had woken him up early and told him her dream. He and her had been, well, making out in his dads garage back in Framingham. That had gotten him all aroused and they had made sleepy love, their naked bodies moving together in a natural rhythm. Which, in turn, had lead him to be a little late, but he had made up for it by driving fast, one of the benefits of a county job. Still, he was never as late as his two chimpanzees. He decided to get a start anyway. It was on the clock, the taxpayers were paying him.

From the side locker of the truck he got out the Husquavarna chainsaw and checked the oil and gas levels. Giving a pull on the cord he started it up, a cloud of blue smoke rising and merging with the fog. Depressing the toggle spun the blade, its tiny claws thrashing at the air, waiting for a real job. He set it on the ground, grabbed a pair of ear protectors and clamping them over his ears. Climbing carefully up the slanted tree trunk he began to cut slowly away at the large limb.

Locked into silence by the ear muffs, his mind drifted, to thoughts of his dads old garage, where pops had had his shop. A tablesaw and a vice, a big workspace lined with tools and bottles of nails. There were a lot of counters for all sorts of projects, plus enough room to work on the car. He remembered when he was younger, going into the shop as dad was working, seeing him in his heavy coveralls, smelling of oil and wood chips.

He missed his dad. The stroke had been quick, but the lingering death had been hard. Letting the chainsaw idle for a second, he glanced out over the foggy landscape, struck by the sudden vividness of his recollections. It was the guilt, most likely, but it hadn't really been his fault, he hadn't gotten the high-paying county job yet. There had been no way he could have afforded that operation, and the insurance company had played like it was a god, bandying life about without a care. Bloodsuckers.

But they had had plenty of good times, when he was young. Glen attacked the resilient limb again, as if the violence could bring those moments back. Once, his dad had fixed his mothers big flashlight, had given it to him, showing him how it worked. He could almost hear his fathers heavy voice, trapped inside his heavy earmuffs.

"See, Glen, you press this button like this and it comes on. The electricity makes the light work." It was magic to him. By the mere application of a little bit of force he could cause this bright beam to appear, like a long sword. He saw his fathers face, smiling at him, giving him this wonderful discovery, this welcome to the time of machines. The smile was large. By the simple pressing of a button, of the toggle switch, he could make a light come on. Glenn made the chainsaw spin, then stop, then spin again, a slow smile creeping across his face.

Cormic and Mcguire spun to a stop in their road rally rabbit sport, flinging gravel left and right. They'd risen early to do laps on the old logging roads, but had arrived late to work. Stepping out and taking off their crash helmets, They threw on rough work jackets.

"Sounds like Glenn's already started." Mcguire commented.

"Workaholic," muttered Comic, "Ahh, hell, let's suffer thru the reprimand." Almost six years of high school detention had forged a heroic resilience to the acidic effects of any kind of guilt trip.

"Hey Glenn!" Mcguire shouted as they approached, watching their boss stand on the curving tree branch. Cormic noticed that Glenn was running the chainsaw on and then off, a childish grin plastered on his face.

"Hey Glenn, whatcha want us to do?" Mcguire shouted again. Glenn, lost in the cottony prison of his earmuffs, thought he heard his name being called, and looked up. An inkiness descended over his eyes, his heart beat magnified, a crushing oppresive weight behind his ears. A confinement that brought forth an instinctive fear. A tremble ticked in his leg, uncontrollable. But then he remembered.

There was a pop. His vision cleared, crystalline clear. He saw his mother calling, he would show her what he could do. He pressed the flashlight on, and ran towards her as she stood out the back porch, smiling at him, so proud. He turned the flashlight towards him as he ran, looking into its jiggling beam of pure whiteness.

"Mother!" he said, tripping over something in the grass, falling. "Look what I can do!!" Glenn slipped off the tree, the chainsaw blade spinning under his hand, hitting the ground. It kicked into him, tearing through Carhart canvas to cut deep into soft flesh, sending tissue flying into the earth, turning it damp with his blood. His hand remained pain-locked, pressing the chainsaw trigger, keeping it churning. His face distorted into a grimace, but would not give up its smile. "I make light, I.."

Cormic and Mcguire stood in shock, unbelieving as they watched Glenns body heave and convulse, the blade ravaging his chest cavity, splitting his heart, hollowing out his body.

"I make light, I make light.." Glenn barely managed to gasp one last time as his spinal cord was severed, a blood bubble bursting out his mouth. His grip at last loosened, the chainsaw idling, sputtering to a halt. Cormic finally moved, yelling at McGuire.

"Fuck, get on the fucking C.B. and get some help out here!!" The two sprang into action, doing the best they could. The light that had shone in Glenns eyes slowly faded to a staring black, and the tense facial muscles relaxed, the smile, too, eventually dying out.

Jody paced in the kitchen preparing a late breakfast of ice cream and banannas when she heard the commotion outside, and the loud knock a second later. Who could it be? she wondered. Usually jerry called if he was going to drop by... she peered out through the curtain. An insistent stranger pushed his way up to the door as she swung it partially open.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but our companies looking for new customers in this area. I wonder if you'd mind taking a minute out of your busy schedule to look over a few of our products?" A man she had never seen before stood before her, smiling at her as he regained his breath. Jody leaned against the doorjamb, looking him over. He appeared to be a typical salesman, of the type now gone, the kind her grandmother used to invite in for tea while she pored over sample books of carpeting or wallpaper. Jody had never really liked them, their pushy fake conversations and handshaking. There was something about inviting business into ones personal home that just wasn't right.

"Jon Fontaine's my name," he said, regaining his breath and handing her his business card. "I'm in the selling game," he smiled at his little rhyme. Jody could see him gearing up for another long-winded run on sentence. There was something different about this man, though... she couldn't quite place it. Maybe it was a tinge of nostalgia, a feeling of sorriness for this man whose job seemed so out of time and place, a thing of the past. In fact, the impression he gave her was of a man of the days gone by. He really wasn't as threatening as she remembered those others, the cologne-selling, leering men who put their hands on her knees when grandma was out of the room. No, this was a tall, thin, tan, handsome looking man with soft brown eyes, almost apologetic.

"Well, what do you sell," she asked, shifting on her feet. It wasn't like she was against shopping, it just had something to do with her personality. She liked stores, and everything they offered. If only, she decided, she could convince herself this was nothing more than a store coming to you, it might even be enjoyable.

"I have plenty of catalogues here", Jon said, fumbling with his briefcase. It popped open, and he pulled out some confused pamphlets, struggling to control them as they threatened to escape. "Er, ah..." he stuttered, as one slid out of his grasp. She deftly swooped it up before it hit the doorstep, handing it back to him. "Why don't you come in," she smiled, holding open the screen for him. He was such a pitiable sight, an awkward puppydog offering up faux trinkets with a heart of true gold. It wasn't that she didn't recognize her own naive vulnerability in certain situations that others would tell her were risky... it was more that she felt compelled to it, driven by some motivation deeper than she could control. She remembered her grandmother, brushing her hair as she lay in bed as a little girl. "Compassion and understanding will always lead you to the light," she had said. But now she was gone, and all Jody had were her words to hold onto, to grip with the fingers of a child who wouldn't let go.

"I haven't been through this area before," Jon said, holding tightly his slipping, prized papers as he followed her down the hall to the living room.

"Well," Jody said, over her shoulder, "It's not like we get many salesmen around here anymore. It's not very populated, you know." She moved some of her papers and an old photo album off the couch.

"Please, sit down. would you like some coffee, tea?" she asked, moving towards the kitchen.

"Ah, actually, no thanks. I've got to get moving, you know, no drinking on the job," he said with a nervous laugh. "Besides, the bosses, you know..." Jody sat down in the easy chair opposite the couch. Poor thing, she half smiled.

"The bosses..." he whispered, leaning in close to her. "They like to keep an eye on us." He winked at her, and suddenly, she felt a cold hard knot grow in her stomach. She felt she had been taken in, once again, tricked by compassion. Her intuitive warning devices had failed her. Jon shuffled the papers on the floor and handed her the disarrayed stack. It only took a quick glance down to verify her fear. She was holding a crazy collection of memorabilia, an old defaced '50's comic book, some old recipe cards cut from magazines, a crumpled maple-leaf, a news article, faded and yellowed, stained by the passage of time. She looked up at him again. His hands now look stained and grimy, not as tan as she had thought. His face was pockmarked and had a small scar under his chin.

"Um, Mr. Fontaine, would you excuse me," she said, keeping a tight lipped smile, half rising out of her seat, but he suddenly lurched forward, his hand moving like lightening, grabbing her wrists. Her heart pounded rapidly, she thought about screaming, but she knew Jerry, her nearest neighbor, lived half a mile away, no one would hear. Jon looked straight into her eyes. She felt her throat constrict. All her nightmares flooded into consciousness, enveloping her in all their fear. A mad man, a killer who would rape her. She found she could not avert her gaze from his forehead, from the sweat that lay in little beads on the tensile plastic surface of the furrowed brow. This man was... human, she thought, and it was so horrible.

"Ma'am, I've just got to tell you," he said, looking intently, his eyes searching every inch of her face in their linked proximity. His grip loosened a little. He let go of her wrists and buried his face in the palm of his hand.

"I... I'm so confused..." he looked up again, grasping her wrists before she could react, moving to the edge of his seat, where she could see into his briefcase, sitting open beside him on the sofa. It too had a strange collection of bric-a-brac. an old rocking horse toy sat sideways, atop a stack of old postcards from South America, some with old faded ink writing and cancelled postmarks. An old victorian photograph of a baby, held by a victorian mother in sepia tones lay perched atop a stack of old stained newspapers and comic book pages. An advertisement for a vacuum cleaner that looked like it was from the stone ages lay ripped in half. There was a snowglobe, and a flashlight. She returned his gaze, steady, trying not to show her fear. He sat up, a smile on his face, noticing her glance at his collection. He looked so out of place that it threw her once again into a state of utter fear; never had a smile communicated such a sense of chaos and foreboding to her.

"Actually ma'am, if you are interested, you could just call this number and the company would be more than glad to help you out. but," he dropped his voice, leaning in close again, though she tried to back away, his breath smelled old and foul.

"Really, I would just write it down on this paper," he whispered, pushing a scrap of childrens notebook paper at her. He sat back and smiled, releasing her, rubbing his hands together.

"Well ma'am," he said, more loudly, looking over to his briefcase, gathering up his papers. " I really should get back on the road now. I..." he looked confused, turning his head, staring around the room. He focused on a red lampshade for a minute, then looked down at his hands. "I..I..." his jaw suddenly went slack, his gaze seemed blank, as if all the life had suddenly departed from his slumped body, leaving this husk which would start to drool at any minute. Jody slowly slid off the edge of her chair, moving to the phone by the kitchen. Jon made no movement towards her, staring at his hands, mumbling to himself.

"Is.. is this Kansas?" he asked, making a puppy dog face of confusion and doubt.

"It's ok... Mr. Fontaine, I..I just have to call for some.. water. would you like some water? " she said from the kitchen, lifting the phone, grasping the long breadknife that lay on the counter, holding it out of his sight. Jon cooed, and she felt strange, talking in that tone of voice that one usually reserved for little kids. Her compassion was coming back now, giving her strength, not doubt. This man was an adult, of that she was afraid, but he seemed so confused, so lost, so hurt... she felt a small part of her that still wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him. Dialing Jerry's number. She stood nervously in the kitchen doorway, listening to the phone ring, watching her strange guest sit, disoriented, on her couch.

"Hello?" Jerry answered after a click. In as quiet a tone as she could, Jody whispered what was going on, and Jerry said he'd be right over. Then she hung up, and stood in the kitchen doorway, one hand on the knife, caught in the flypaper of silence, dancing a muted dance with her murmuring passive partner, entranced by the bright colors of his scattered confetti.

Back at the police station, or the polite square brick building which passed for one, Sheriff Bradford Tolland pushed a warm styrofoam cup between Cormics shaking hands.

"Here you go, something warm to calm you down." The young man looked haggard, stunned. And who wouldn't be? Sheriff Tolland mused, after watching someone eaten by their own chainsaw, with no reason why. It was the nature of accidents, the sheriff knew, from having had to deal with them all his life. It was his job, especially in this small town where crime was just a bunch of young stoned vandals. They were, plain and simple, accidents. A brief slip, and a life was over. One slight misstep, or a cigarette left burning, all these random events could lead to death. What could one really do? Taking care always helped, sure, but then accidents still occurred, well, when they occurred. To have to watch them, though, was something else. Traumatic, he thought, watching these two boys struggle in front of him.

"Would you boys like anything to eat, or how about a cigarette?"

"Yeah, yeah," Mcguire said, and took the proffered Camel. Cormic drank his coffee, letting the hot steam rise into his eyes, bathing them in warmth and making them drift from the horrific image of the morning.

"If only we hadn't been so late." moaned Mcguire, shivering. The sheriff stared him in the eye.

"You can't change the past, what happened is over. Accidents in life occur. Sure you could have been there earlier. Maybe if you hadn't worn a hat today, maybe if I hadn't put contacts in my eyes this morning or if the goddam sky wasn't so goddamn red at sunrise, then maybe none of this would have happened. But what can you do! You want to spend all your life living in the realm of could have beens? Is that what you want?"

"No, no. It's just that, it's, I just wish..." Cormic went silent and simply looked back into the shiny black of his coffee. Mcguire puffed away at his cigarette. He glanced at Cormic.

"If you hadn't wanted to test the new suspension." he said coldly. Cormic started up from his seat, spilling the coffee.

"Hell, you're the one that wanted new suspension in the first place, you little..."

Tolland jumped between them, calming them with his steady, deep voice, and the strong pressure of his hands to their shoulders.

"Listen, listen to you. Don't you fall into this trap. Don't live the could have beens. Ok? Sit down, take a deep breath, you guys know better. You're not at fault. Calm, ok, calm..." The two young men shuffled about, returning heavily to their seats. Tolland knew they hadn't meant it. Why, they'd been friends since as long as anyone could recall. After finishing high school, the two of them had gone to work for the county. They were the type who never leave their small home town, they have no reason to. They were born and bred of their land, and would live their entire lives here, drinking on thursdays at the bar, driving their road rally cars and motorbikes on all the trails, picking up on all the new girls that would come to town, or finding them in the neighboring towns in those towns' bars. Eventually marrying, having kids, most likely getting divorced. Tolland hoped there werent any domestic violence calls, waiting for him under the masks of the boys faces. He sighed and got Cormic another warm cup of coffee, sponging off the desk.

"Thanks, sheriff."

"Yeah," Mcguire said, "sorry about all that."

"That's all right, you boys have had quite a shock. Try being a cop sometime, you get this every day."

"No thanks, " said Cormic, thinking he probably wouldn't be able to smoke dope if he was a cop.

Mcguire stared out the window at the small town of Shrewsbury, Massachusetts. On the main street people slowly went about their day. Depositing money in the bank, buying groceries or having the breakfast special at Lucy's One and Only Cafe. Everyone, Mcguire realized, but Glenn. He stubbed out his cigarette. Sheriff Tolland once more addressed the two.

"Now, I know its hard, but I need to get an official account, for the records. Can you tell me what exactly happened, when you got there?" He pushed play on the small cheap tape recorder which had taken the place of his front-desk sergeant after the first wave of budget cuts had hit the state.

"Well," Cormic began, "We showed up late,a bit after 7:30, and he was cutting away at a tree with the chainsaw, you know, clearing it away from phone lines."

"And I came up to him, and yelled his name." Mcguire said. "That's when he fell, and.. and.."

"Glenn had done this work before?" Tolland asked.

"Yeah, we do it all the time, very routine." Cormic replied.

"Tell me exactly, if you can , the procedure for clearing trees."

"Well, I mean its all pretty normal, nothing to it really. You know, chainsaw work. Wear protective gloves, heavy boots, ear plugs.." Tolland interrupted.

"He was wearing ear plugs and running a chainsaw, did he hear you?" Mcguire thought for a moment.

" He looked up at me, but I didn't think he could hear me, then he just sort of..."

"Ran off the tree." Cormic finished.

"Ran?" Tolland asked, looking skeptically at Cormic.

"Ran, slipped, fell. Yeah." said Cormic.

"You said ran, though, first impressions are important. Why did he fall?" The two young men exchanged glances.

"Well, he kind of did run to us, or our direction."

"I thought he wanted to, you know, kind of show us something." Mcguire said, casting another glance out the window.

"What? Show you what?" Tolland inquired.

"I don't know. Nothing, I guess, he just fell and.." The image of the flying guts and skin came back suddenly to McGuire, he could smell the oil of the chainsaw mixed with the steaming flesh. He shivered, feeling the bile rise in his throat.

"Now, think clearly, did he say anything?" Mcguire turned his gaze from the window back to the sheriff, thinking hard.

"I think, think he said, 'Mother'..." Tolland etched the word into his scratch pad. This accident report was going nowhere.

"Isn't that what they're all supposed to say when they go.." muttered Cormic.

"Only in war, Cormic, only in war. " The sheriff said, smiling sadly at the two shaken men.

"But maybe in an accident too, maybe in an accident too.." he added, pondering. There was a silence as each was caught up in their own thoughts. The sheriff flicked his eyes from face to face. There was nothing more to learn. What can one learn from an accident but to take more care? He sighed, remembering poor Glenn. He'd last seen him, when... two months ago? When that big rig had hit a tree, blocked the road. A very nice guy, married to that slender Nancy. He felt himself age years knowing he'd have to tell her the news, if she hadn't found out already. Small towns had their own back avenues of communication. Turning back to Cormic and Mcguire, he cleared his throat and stopped the tape-recorder.

"Now go on home, take a few days off, rest and relax, deal with this as best as you can. Thanks a lot for your help. If you ever need anything, just stop on by. Now go on, get out of here."

Cormic and Mcguire shuffled slowly out, leaving the sheriff to fill out his reports. The two of them stood looking at each other across the roof of their rallycar, depressed and upset. The whole morning had been a drain.

"Hey man," said Mcguire, " You got any good weed on you?"

"Sure I do, sure I do Mcguire. Looks like we'll both need it, huh?" They got into their car and drove off.

The sheriff watched the road rally sports rabbit turn a corner and disappear. Accidents take their toll, he said to himself, they do take their toll.

"Mother," he whispered, reading his note on the scratchpad, turning back to the report.

Shrewsbury was a normal town, in some ways, spread out in front of him, basking in the early afternoon sun. Get it while you can, he thought, before Mr. Winter comes. Peter walked down the main street, a couple hundred feet of bank, local grocery store, rural feed and hay, the lone diner and out of business antique stores. It was a little after three, the hour he was supposed to meet Jack at the bar. Not that he had necessarily wanted to awake, but the alarm would not be silent. He had kept swatting at the grating machine as if it were an annoying sheep constantly wanting more grain. Anyway, he hadn't seen Jack as of recent. One can only hole up in books for so long.

This place is in a constant state of disrepair, he noticed, looking at the town's potholed mainstreet and dilapidated store signs. Hardly anyone ever came through here, since it was mostly an off the road town, with its population of small town eccentrics, the odd novelist or two who had retreated here after publishing a couple of novels, and of course, its one struggling graduate student. The only two real points of interest were the bare bones of the viking settlement, a little north of town, and the big old railway depot.

Once, in the 1860's, during the civil war, it had been a major northern troop transfer point, and the large railroad station at one end of the town had been built up as quickly as it had left. Now it sat alone, a large empty monument to silence. Every couple of years the town council tried to drum up support to turn it into a mini shopping complex, and every year a entrepreneurial, youthful go getter moved on in, only to age quickly in the next couple months, abandoning their dreams and moving on, or lingering, stuck in the morass that was the towns sluggish economy. But it was the reminates of the old viking settlement a few miles west of the town on the coast which attracted Peter, had brought him here to Shrewsberry in the first place. It was his hope that by being close to this near nonexistent sight of a depression where a cabin may have stood, of a scrap of metal that was perhaps a nail, and other, even less exhilarating evidence of Viking colonization, that this proximity would lend to an atmosphere which was congenial, if not downright helpful, to his thesis. There was a theory he held which put geography as an important factor to history. Still, Peter sighed, why couldn't the vikings have chosen to land in Pittsburg or someplace more lively. The town was already, after four months, sucking him into its backward tow, eating itself up and him with it. If only he wasn't so dependent on his work to give his life its meaning, he would have split long ago.

He trudged heavily up to Hanks Bar, feeling like he really needed that beer. Mr.Gresham, whom he sometimes noticed at Lucy's One and Only Diner, was sitting on the bench in front of the door, next to Harrys' feed and garden supply store. He looked like he was waiting for someone, like he had been waiting a long, long time.

"Hi, Mr. Gresham," Peter said, walking up the decaying wooden stairs. "Waiting for someone?" Gresham looked at him, frowning. He still wore his green marines jacket from the war. Peter had no idea what any of the myriad medals and decorations were for, but they always attracted him. Gresham didn't say anything, looking down at his scuffed old combat boots.

"Hey, can I buy you a drink," Peter said, suddenly feeling responsible for the old man's lack of loquaciousness. He knew he was a putz in that way, but he just couldn't bear to be confronted with someone that exuded such an air of dead hopelessness. It just made him think of himself. Gresham looked up and cleared his throat.

"I don't drink," he said, his small, deepset eyes peering out from his weathered face.

"Well, how about a coffee then," Peter said, trying to gather up a shred of self respect. That's right, he told himself, if it doesn't work, force it on through. Gresham looked up, actually, Peter imagined, cracking a small smile of feeling.

"Well...I suppose a cup wouldn't hurt me, " he said.

"Come on in, then," Peter said. "Drinks are on me!"

He pushed open the door into the dark bar, smelling of beer soaked wood. Hank was tending as usual. Peter and Gresham sat down at the counter, the same counter that Peter had been visiting almost daily now for the last month or so.

"A beer, Hank, and a coffee for Mr. Gresham. "

"Black?"

"Black as the night," Gresham replied, looking around the dimly lit room. He gave a curt nod to Sheriff Tolland, who was using the payphone in the back.

"Seasons up again, Paul," the sheriff said, covering the phone with his hand momentarily before turning back to his ghostly conversation, staring at the beeper in his hand.

Hank placed the drinks on the bar and moved back to his cash register where he resumed reading his paperback. Gresham grunted and picked up his coffee. Peter watched the man drink, wondering if maybe he shouldn't have sat down with him today. He certainly didn't seem to want to talk to anyone. Peter pointed to Greshams' medals.

"You fought in the war?", he said, feeling embarrassed at being such an unskilled conversationalist that he had to rely on tactless, forward blurtings. The two of them had had conversations before, though always avoiding the subject of the man's past. Peter wasn't sure why he had babbled out that question. It's a sign, he realized, I've spent to many days without leaving the house lately. Gresham was obviously taken aback at the bluntness of the question. People usually talked their way around such things. Still, Peter could see he appreciated some of the honesty. Gresham harrumphed, turning silently away for a moment, then looked straight up into Peters face.

"My eyes have seen things out there in the jungle you don't even know about" the vet said, drinking from his steaming cup of coffee, steam vapors blurring his features.

"I wouldn't want to see what you refer to anyway, Mr. Gresham, I wouldn't want to know either."

"I hope you never have to, not at all, seen enough youth go down as it is, back then. Even now, todays cities, they're as bad as the jungles. Just no mines that's all, no hidden mines." He leaned closer to Peter, looking at him from under heavy, worn eyebrows, "I just don't want to be invalidated, you know, forgotten. Used to be all these movies I'd go see, all these movies attempting somehow to bring that whole mess to some sort of resolution, and they were getting close. Sure they're movies an all, but some of them were working, hell I knew some guys were helping with the scripts, we were trying to work our own way out of it. We were in there, and now we want out, we want out, but we just don't want to be plain forgotten, that's all, don't want our deeds gone to waste." The older man leaned back, sipping again at his coffee, his eyes glancing out the window and around the bar. Peter followed his gaze and then brought it back to Greshams face. It was worn, tired, ready to give up the fight. There were tics and movements of the muscles, as if old faces were trying to push their way up to the surface. Peter sipped his beer slowly. He knew about the power of history. The old viking ruins kept him in a constant state of unknowing, and all he had were a few rusty nails and rotted wooden beams to tie him to the past. He had worked for almost four years on one runic inscription, carved a thousand years ago, created in ten minutes by an ancient, unknown human being... it was enough to drive him crazy. Reconstructing one word per year, a hopeless battle against the power of the past. It was different than war, though, especially in Vietnam... or had Gresham been in Korea? Peter couldn't remember. That was when ones own past was becoming lost... Gresham slid his cup away from him and stood up, nodding to the sheriff, throwing some change on the counter top, stopping Peters objections with a glance.

"Well, gotta get back to the shack."

Peter swiveled on his stool. Gresham looked down at the floor for a minute, as if indecisive, and then looked up, clearing his throat.

"I'm, uh, going hunting this weekend if you'd like. Deer seasons up again." He lifted his eyebrows at Peter.

"I've never been hunting," Peter replied. Gresham snorted.

"Well, I've got more than a couple guns lying around. Come up afternoonish, if you want. Saturday." He stood around for a second more, then abruptly turned with a backward wave and shuffled out the door. The bells hanging from the jamb continued to ring behind him, and Peter turned back into his beer, wondering where in the hell Jack was, thinking about guns.