They had hounded him back to the land when he quit. Others had not been so lucky. When a whole people panic then an object for their hate must be found. A naming. An immediate object. He remembered the newspaper story that began: "They lynched twelve men, twelve ex-men, in New Mexico last night ..." _Have I been wrong? Have I done the right thing?_ He remembered the tiny hands in his own, the blind eyes. _Those hands. Why do they make me feel like ..._ He let his head slide back against the padded top of the rocking chair and fell into a light, uneasy sleep. The dreams came as they had before. Tiny, inhumanly capable hands clutched at him and the sun was hot above. There was a background sound of hydrogen bombs, heard mutely. He looked down at the hands that touched and asked something of his own. The eyes were not milky now. They stared up at him, alert and questioning. _What is it you want?_ The wind tore holes in tiny voices and there was the sound of laughter and his wife's eyes were looking into his own, sorry only for him, at peace with the rest. And they formed a ring around him, those three, hands caught together, enclosing him. _What is it you are saying?_ It seemed to him that the words would come clear, but the rain came then, great torrents of it, washing all away, all sight and sound.... * * * * * He awoke and only the rain was true. The tiny rain had increased to a wind-driven downpour and he was soaked where it had blown under the eaves onto the porch. From inside the house he heard a cry. She was sitting upright in bed. Her eyes were open and full of pain. He went quickly to her and touched her pulse. It was faint and reedy. "I hurt," she whispered. Quickly, as the doctor had taught him, he made up a shot of morphine, a full quarter grain, and gave it to her. Her eyes glazed down, but did not close. "John," she said softly, "the children ... they ... talk to ..." She twisted on the bed and he held her with strong arms until the eyes closed again and her breathing became easy. He pushed the ruffled hair back from her eyes and straightened the awry sheets. The vibration of his walking might have wakened the twins. He tiptoed to _their_ bed--for they refused to be parted even in sleep. For a second he thought that the small night-light had tricked him by shadows on shadows. He reached down to touch ... They were gone. He fought down sudden panic. Where can two children, deaf and dumb and blind go in the middle of the night? Not far. He opened the door to the kitchen, hand-hunted for the hanging light. They were not there--nor were they on the small back porch. The panic passed critical mass, exploded out of control. He lurched back into the combination living room, bed room. He looked under all of the beds and into the small closet--everywhere that two children might conceal themselves.