Page 48 of The Last Stars in the Sky
Daniel turns around slowly, his hands resting on the handlebars of the bike. “Five days ago.”
The man stares at him for a long moment and then he jerks a thumb toward the house. “You can share our supper, if you want.”
Daniel hesitates, ashamed to realize he’s worried this might be a trick. Can he not accept simple hospitality? Is it worth the risk?
“We don’t bite,” the man says, a trace of humor in his voice. “Not even Rocky, our German Shepherd.”
Daniel manages a hoarse sound that was meant to be a laugh. This is the first human interaction he’s had since the couple who rescued him from the river, and he realizes he craves it. He needs to feel normal again, if only for a few moments. “All right,” he replies. “Thank you.”
As he wheels the bike toward the house, the man nods to it. “Best bring that inside.”
“All right,” Daniel says again.
“I’m Tom,” the man tells him as he comes onto the porch, bumping the bike up the steps.
“Daniel.”
Inside the children have scrambled off the sofa and are standing in the doorway of the living room, wide-eyed and silent. The youngest, maybe four or five years old, sucks his thumb, clutching a grubby square of blue blanket, one corner a little rabbit’s head with silky ears.
“That’s Noah,” the man says. “And this here’s Hannah.” He nods toward the girl, who looks about eight or so. “My wife Abby is in the kitchen with the baby.”
“Nice to meet you all,” Daniel murmurs. It feels completely surreal, to walk into a family home full of warmth and light, and make introductions like he’s at a party. The normality of it feels both beautiful and miraculous. He takes off his rucksack, props it against the wall, feeling a bit bereft without his things, his rifle. Then he follows Tom back to the kitchen, where his wife Abby is standing at a wood stove, stirring a pot. A baby in a highchair is banging a spoon on his tray, and Rocky, the German Shepherd, is sprawled under the table; his head lifts as Daniel comes into the room. Abby’s eyes widen as she catches sight of him, and he realizes he must look a sight—wild-eyed, unshaven, dirty. He probably smells.
“Sorry,” he blurts. “I’ve been on the road for the last week.”
“This here’s Daniel,” Tom tells his wife. “I said we’d share our supper.”
Abby, seeming unsurprised by this statement, gives one brief nod of acceptance. “All right then,” she says. She glances at Daniel. “You’d best sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you,” Daniel murmurs, too overwhelmed by these people’s simple and easy generosity to say more. He sits down at the table, next to the baby, who stares at him with avid openness before letting out a sudden, ear-splitting shriek.
Abby smiles and gives a self-conscious laugh. “Sorry, he always does that. He figured out he could make that noise a couple of days ago and he hasn’t stopped.”
“Isaac’s got a good set of lungs on him,” Tom agrees comfortably. “Can I get you something to drink? We don’t drink alcohol.” He says it without apology, simply a statement, and Daniel smiles.
“A glass of water would be wonderful.”
He watches as Tom dips a pitcher into a barrel of water in the corner of the room, so similar to the barrel back at the cottage that he feels a pang of longing assail him; it would have sent him to his knees if he hadn’t already been sitting. He wants to be home. He wants to be home with his family around him like Tom is.
“So, Daniel,” Tom asks, as he hands him a glass of water, “where you headed?”
“Clarkson, out toward Syracuse. My son is at college there, and I want to bring him home.”
Tom nods slowly. “Must be about thirty miles between here and there.”
“Yes.” He’s come so much farther, though, he reminds himself. He’s come over two hundred miles already.
“You come all that way on that little girl’s bike?” Tom continues, his eyebrows raised. “I don’t think it’s big enough even for our Hannah.”
“Only the last seventy,” Daniel replies. “I had a car before then.”
Tom nods again and sits at the table opposite him; Noah scrambles into his lap and he puts his arm around the boy, drawing him close in a way that’s unthinking and easy, and makes Daniel ache to put his arms around his own children. His own wife. “I’ll check the tires before you go on,” Tom tells him. “The front one looked a little low.”
Startled, Daniel can only gulp and nod. “Thank you,” he manages after a moment. “You’re very kind.”
“It’s our Christian duty,” Tom says simply, in a way that suggests there is no more to say than that. He gives Abby a significant glance, and she purses her lips and nods. Daniel isn’t sure what communication has taken place, only that one has.
“We eat plain food,” Tom continues, as Abby starts dishing out what looks like a stew of potatoes and a bit of stringy beef, swimming in thin gravy. “Got to be careful, these days, but we’re blessed in that we have a farm, our own land and source of water.”
