They ate breakfast that morning at a long table parallel to the front of Nahom’s church, tightly packed with stools and folding chairs, each occupied by one of the town’s residents. Evajean and Elliot weren’t made to feel like outsiders, but they weren’t the center of attention, either. Rather, the atmosphere was comfortable and the food–oatmeal and applesauce, with fat rolls of whole grain bread–hot and satisfying.

Elliot sat with Evajean on his left and a pudgy woman in her sixties to the right. Mrs. Reed, she’d been introduced as, but, she said, you can call me Cecilia. She asked him a few questions about where they were from, where they were headed, and pressed for information on just how terribly awful it must have been to be out in those woods all alone. She’d heard about the night before and, as is always the case in such a small community, knew them men who’d died. It was sad, but they’d given their lives to save others, and that was as good a death as one could ever hope for.

Elliot nodded along with all this and offered up innocuous facts about the last couple days, but he kept their ultimate destination to himself. He didn’t know if these people were even aware of the Hole and, still remembering his conversation with Andrews, he wasn’t going to fill that ignorance in for them. The town and its residents were too clean, too nice, and that had him on edge.

“This is delicious,” Evajean said to Cecilia, mopping up the last of her oatmeal with a roll.

“You’re too kind to say so, honey,” the rotund little dame said. “It’s not what it ought to be, what with supplies being scarce and those things out there in the woods meaning we can’t be heading up to where you folks live to get more coffee and butter and jam.”

“No, this is perfect,” Elliot said. And, at least as to just the food, he meant it. His stomach had felt as hard and small as a golf ball when he’d woke up for the second time that morning, and the meal, while bland, remedied that spectacularly. Evajean had let him sleep for another couple hours after the nightmare and then she’d shaken him awake, telling him the town’s folk were setting up for the morning meal and if he wanted any, he’d better get himself out of bed. She’d set out a change of clothes brought by one of the families of the dead, and they fit well enough, though he didn’t much care for the rustic farmer look. The town had already been well into their meal by the time he walked back across the field and into the square before the church, but they’d left room for the two of them and set aside a few scraps of meat for the dog. The puppy was now under the table, gnawing at the thick beef with its tiny teeth, growling occasionally in satisfaction–or frustration.

A similarly fat man, belly and chest bulging around the edges of his overalls, reached across Elliot to grab the large clay bowl of applesauce. ” ‘Scuse me,” he said, grunting the words.

“Sure,” Elliot said and leaned back to give the man room. He heard Evajean laugh quietly next to him.

“Lot of men died,” the fat man said.

Elliot, pretty sure he was the one being spoken to, said, “Last night?”

“Lot of good men.” The fat man wasn’t looking at Elliot but, rather, into his bowl of mixed oatmeal and fruit.

“I’m sorry,” Elliot said.

“Yeah,” the fat man said, “yeah, I bet you are.” And he stud up, taking his food to the far end of the the table.

“Don’t you mind him.” This from Cecilia, resting her hand gently on his arm. “William can be a genuine grumpy puss when he sets his mind to it. Almost never smiles. Sometimes I think he don’t know how.”

“You know him well?” Evajean asked.

“Of course, honey. I’m married to the big old grump.” Cecilia laughed, a sound hearty and deep.