By afternoon the Boses had decided that they could walk with Margaret, shoulder to shoulder, and tell her what a fine life they had had back home before the migrations began, how respected Andrew had been, and wealthy. His creels would last for years — and they were beaver-proof. His nets were the best. You could snag them on rocks and it would be the rock that lifted and not the net that tore. Fishermen from the far bank of the river would risk the rapids just to get across and purchase a Bose net. He owned a good part of the riverbank. He owned a carriage and had a dozen boats for rent as well as the canoe that Acton used for fishing. He had more land than any farmer in the neighborhood, which he rented out for one fifth of the crop. “Now look at me,” he said, handing over Bella for the umpteenth time that day. “A bag of oats, that’s all we’ve got worth anything.”

The road degraded. With every step of their journey the highway became more damaged and disordered, its top shell cracked and coming apart. The route was losing its clarity. A watercourse that had once flowed along a man-made culvert had broken through its false banks years before and flooded, every time it rained, onto the road, tearing out the surfacing and, with the undramatic patience of water, shifting blocks of curbstone and rubble scree. It became easier to walk along the berms and margins than to scramble through the detritus. This was no longer a route for vehicles or even for horses. If there’d been no rustlers and the Boses had made it to this place intact, they would have had to find another route or abandon their carriage and their animals.

Margaret was glad to leave the highway at last when what was left of it turned to the right in a great arc, heading for the south. She had found no traces of the band of rustlers since midday. No fresh horse dung, no scuffs consistent with a line of men or a string of mules, no more bodies sticky with blood. So she did not feel that she had abandoned her duties toward Franklin when she finally led the Boses away from the old straight road and through the debris fields surrounding it, with rainclouds at their backs, and onto a narrower, less exposed pathway that was more truly pointing to the east but that was also virtually unused and therefore likely to be safe.

Before long they found the ideal place to spend the night, replenish their drinking bags, and revive their spirits: a disused cow barn backing onto a creek in which minnows and darters evidenced how sweet and safe the water was. Even better, the cow barn still had half a roof, so not only could they be certain of a rain-protected stay and a warmer one than on the previous night, sheltered from both the wind and the sky, but also they were blessed with kindling wood, the splintered, hollowed-out remains of roof beams that were featherlight and dry and would produce hardly any telltale smoke.

Soon they had a decent fire as their companion and were making the best of their pooled food. Bella refused most of her meal again. The salt fish was too strong and the oatmeal was too weighty for her stomach. She was distressed, as well, and colorless. Her olive skin seemed metallic.

Margaret was happy to share her blanket and the tarp with the child, though surprised that the Boses seemed to have abandoned their health precautions so thoroughly in the space of just a day. They had, indeed, said, “Let little Bella spend the night with you. She’s better off with you. You’re young.” But their thorough change of heart was soon explained. They were whispering again at their end of the cow barn, and Melody was sounding oddly sweet and childish for a change. They did not seem able to settle and were constantly arranging and rearranging their bedding. Margaret might have called out to them to keep quiet, that there was a testing day of walking ahead of them, and that she for one would welcome a good night’s sleep. But when she heard the rasping notes in Andrew’s throat, she knew that the Boses were making love. She’d heard the sound of it before, from her father, and from her younger sister’s husband, Glendon Fields. She’d heard it from her neighbors’ windows at all times of the day, the selfsame loss of breath and pigsty squeals, high-pitched and not quite male, the shushing sounds, attempts at secrecy, the creaking timbers of the bed, and sometimes panting from the woman, too. But she’d never seen anybody making love, and so her sense of it was constructed only out of sounds, which seemed both distressed and joyful at one time. It was a mystery that, because Franklin had been taken, she felt would never be solved for her. She’d live a maid, not touched by anyone, a listener to lovers.

Margaret hadn’t thought the Boses could be lovers. Lovers as well as partners. Lovers as well as grandparents. It wasn’t just their age and frailty or (when it suited them) their stiff good manners that made their passion so unlikely, it was also the current shape of their life. Their son was missing, all their wealth had been taken from them, their lives were draped with fear, anxiety, and grief, their bodies were exhausted by the walk, they had not truly eaten well for a month — yet still they had the will to kiss.

Margaret lay as still as she could. Soon the breathing at the far end of the barn was back to normal. Then the snoring started, and the rain, beating on the roof slates noisily. Little Bella began to stretch her legs and cry, invasively. She wanted to crawl and try to seize anything that caught her eye in that dim light. The supper was making her restless, so Margaret put her little finger in the girl’s mouth and let her suck on it, and then she let her snuggle to her breast. The cow barn settled to the night. Soon everyone was sleeping. Another day, then, passing without incident.

First they noticed that pockets of land around the pathway were cultivated and that within easy reach were clusters of unabandoned wooden huts, some with plumes of smoke and hostile dogs, others with washing lines, others with a tethered cow or two and goats. The farms around the homes were dying back for winter, but still the practiced eye could recognize where rows of beans and corn had been, and see that apples had been in such abundance that year that the ground was squelchy with windfalls. This was almost the America that they had all been born in. It was reassuring finally to discover such normality, but it was unnerving also, especially for the Boses. If everything was normal here, then who was to say that their flight from their fine shuttered house and those lucrative riverside employments that had provided wealth and respect had not been precipitate? Had Acton been the price they’d paid for haste?

Margaret tied her scarf tightly around her head and under her chin, left the adult Boses in charge of their bags and possessions, and went, with Bella sitting on her hip, to find out what she could about the way ahead and beg some baby food. She avoided the first two huts. Their guard dogs, both on long leashes, were a warning to stay away. But at the third building, a single-story cabin with a slate roof similar to the one that had kept them dry the previous evening, no dog was in evidence. There was, though, a washing line with children’s clothes on it and the bulky figure of a woman sitting on the stoop and working on a reed basket. Most important, they had a yard of nanny goats with young. There would be milk to spare.

Margaret was not noticed until she lifted the rope tie on the garden gate and began to walk slowly down the ash-and-clinker path toward the house. Then she coughed and waited. When the woman looked up, startled, it was clear that she was younger than she appeared, a girl, probably less than twenty years old. That made Margaret the elder, so instead of going forward to introduce herself, she stayed where she was, as was the custom. To do otherwise would be to insult each other’s dignity. If you are alone and they are in company, then you salute them; if you are sitting and they are standing, they greet you; if you are walking and they are riding, you acknowledge them, and certainly it always was the case that the young should defer to anybody older. So Margaret waited while the heavy girl put down her work, struggled to her feet, and came forward toward her visitor. She called out “Pa!” before addressing Margaret.