The train carried him north through a country that had forgotten his name. Julian Ashworth pressed his forehead to the cold glass and watched the pale fields unspool, each one identical to the last, each one a small erasure. He had been gone eleven years. The letter from his father had arrived in Lisbon on a Tuesday, written in a hand that trembled with age or drink or both. Come home, it said....
Morning came to Chalkwater with the fine grey rain that never quite decided to be rain. Elena Voss stood at the dispensary door with the ladle in her hand, and one by one the displaced came up the corridor with their bowls.
"There's a good smell to it, Miss Voss," said Mabel Firman, carrying the pot of pale porridge. Mabel said it the way other people said the weather. It meant nothing, and it...
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