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enormous heap of laundry. “I stopped to say good-bye.”
    â€œAnd where, so sudden?” Nan Lundy came out, drying her reddened hands on her apron. “D’you have someone to go to? Did Mary’s relatives write?”
    It was an old dream of his mother’s—the letter, and him walking east and taking ship to Ireland. He should see it, his mother said, and England, too, choose for himself, not just stick to the choices his parents had made. Her uncle would come into money someday, and then it might be possible to live in Ireland.
    Mrs. Lundy opened her mouth, took a quick breath as she tried to marshall her questions. Then she glanced sharply at Phin and went to stand by her husband’s chair, putting one hand on his shoulder.
    Lundy’s slow eyes looked Phin up, looked him down. No coat. No bundle. Shirt thin and ragged, breath coming hard, and whatever showed on his face. Phin had no ideawhat that was. His mouth felt like it was smiling and his back prickled. He kept twisting to glance over his shoulder—
    â€œStep inside,” Lundy said. “That piece of bacon, Nan. And cold biscuit—haven’t we got some cold biscuit?”
    â€œJust—” She didn’t finish. Just that for your dinner, is what she would have said.
    â€œMatches,” said Lundy. “On a journey like that, you’ll want matches.” He reached down beside his chair and brought up one of the many cylindrical boxes he had carved.
    His wife counted out the precious matchsticks, hesitated, her hand hovering over the box, then hastily added two more. Just so she and Phin’s mother used to help each other, giving greatly on washerwomen’s earnings.
    Lundy unfastened the bandanna from his neck. His wife tied it around the biscuits, the matchbox, and a small lump of bacon she’d cut off a not-much-larger chunk. She gave Phin the bundle.
    â€œCut yourself a stick when you get out into the countryside,” Lundy said. “Got a knife, do you?”
    Quickly, so he’d be believed, Phin nodded, glancing over his shoulder again. The Lundys had just one knife. She’d borrowed it from him to cut the bacon.
    â€œWish you had a bottle for water,” Mrs. Lundy said.“You’ll get thirsty, walking. But Jimmy’s got all his father’s kit now.”
    Jimmy Lundy, swallowed underground; his little brothers swallowed into the breaker building, picking slate out of anthracite coal. If only Phin had been swallowed, too. If only he’d been safe underground this morning.
    Dogs barked near the Street, as if at an intruder. Lundy jerked his head toward the back room. It had no door to the outside, but the window was wide open, letting in air and mosquitoes.
    Mrs. Lundy darted ahead of Phin and came back carrying Mikkeleen, the littlest boy, pressing his face into her neck so he couldn’t see, couldn’t tell. “Go,” she mouthed, and leaned to kiss Phin, a hard, dry brush against his cheek. She turned away as Mikkeleen squirmed sleepily.
    Phin slipped into the back room and was reaching for the windowsill when a sound froze him—metal striking stone. Mikkeleen said, “Horsie?”
    Phin turned around. Mrs. Lundy stood in the front doorway with Mikkeleen in her arms, filling it, blocking the light.
    â€œI can’t come to the gate,” she said loudly. “The child’s sick, and my husband as well.” Her tone held the rider at a distance. A little distance; it was a little yard.
    â€œDid a boy come this way?” The voice seemed familiar, but Phin couldn’t place it. His life was full of men’s voices, calling for drinks or a fresh pack of cards.
    Nan Lundy said, “What would a boy be doing abroad, and the sun up already?” The Irish way; answer a question with a question, and you’ve told no lie. But who could she be talking to?
    The man at the gate said, “This boy killed John Engelbreit, the