Then, just like that, she’s gone. Just like that they are five instead of six, five big boys standing under the old oak with June’s ancient light printing their faces and the excited cries of the softball girls in their ears.
She opens her mouth and says, Hi, Duddie. Looks around and says, Hi, you guys.
Then, just like that, she’s gone. Just like that they are five instead of six, five big boys standing under the old oak with June’s ancient light printing their faces and the excited cries of the softball girls in their ears. Pete is crying. So is Jonesy. The wino is gone—he’s apparently collected enough for his bottle—but another man has come, a solemn man dressed in a winter parka in spite of the day’s warmth. His left cheek is covered with red stuff that could be a birthmark, except Henry knows it isn’t. It’s byrus. Owen Underhill has joined them in Strawford Park, is watching them, but that’s all right; no one sees this visitor from the far side of the dreamcatcher except for Henry himself.
