She found a laugh in that, though of the kind that bruises.

He held her for a moment, and she held him, and she kissed his cheek, and he kissed her brow.

Driving away, she looked once in the mirror and saw him standing in the lane, watching her leave, and she could not look back again.

Along the county road, when she found a widening of the shoulder where she could park, she stopped the car.

An unfenced meadow sloped up toward a trio of oaks. She climbed the meadow to the trees and sat with her back against the largest of them, hidden from traffic on the road below.

For a long time, she wept, not so much for him and not at all for herself, but for the condition of all things and for the way the world could be but is not.

In time, she found herself thinking about nothing more than the birds and their songs, the sound of the breeze in the high branches of the oaks, and the shafts of sunlight, clear and pure, that fell through the trees and found the grass and caressed it.

She rose then and returned to the car. She needed to go home. She had a new book to write. And a life to find.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEAN KOONTZ is the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers. He lives with his wife, Gerda, and the enduring spirit of their golden retriever, Trixie, in southern California.

Correspondence for the author should be addressed to:

Dean Koontz

P.O. Box 9529

Newport Beach, California 92658