At 4:00 in the morning we were off, drifting down the black road which wound silently through the mountain pass. Above, rocky sentinels observed our progress, their formidable figures etched against the dark mat of the sky. As we coasted deeper into the rocky crevasse, the stars receded into the morning light, bowing to the far greater sun which sought dominion over the earth and sky. With the coming of dawn, the spell of silence was broken. and we gained relatively flat land. "You know," Norm said, "Once I leave, I can't remember what the mountains look like; I just can't see them in my mind." I was glad that I could; I possessed a hoard of images for reflections. Unfortunately, though, mental pictures could not be shared. Aug. 9, 1980... Drove straight back. Norm didn't feel good. I helped him get downstairs and all. It was a long shot, to be sure, but by the time we hit Des Moines, it seemed ridiculous to check into a motel when home was a mere four hours away. We kept driving. We rolled up to an empty house since Mom and Dad were still on vacation. Opening the door a certain stagnancy assailed our nostrils, proof that no one had disrupted the air for days. It was home, nevertheless, and a few brisk passes and several gusts of wind sucked through the screen windows dissipated the stillness within minutes, transforming the house into a breathing creature once again. I was happy to be home. Upstairs I found Norm seated on his bed, his eyes unfocused and restless. I stopped and he looked up at me. "I feel strange. . . it's hard to describe. Nervous and out of touch." His appearance made me wish I could hold him, shelter him from some undefinable evil. When I asked if there was anything I could do, he wanted me to stay and talk; far more than all else, he did not want to be alone. I sat down on the twin bed opposite Norm's; later he decided to watch television, so I brought his pillows downstairs and made certain he was comfortable. After awhile, he announced that he felt better, and I rose to go upstairs. "Thanks," he said "I'll stay up a little longer." "Are you sure you're OK?" I asked. "Yeh. . ." The fear and bewilderment had gone, leaving a rather placid figure to stare at the television. Despite his stature, there was something about Norm. . . an innocence... a vulnerability... that gave him a child-like quality; and within myself, something instinctual made me alert and watchful of his needs. Involuntarily, I always kept an ear peeled for Norm; I never asked myself "why " and it never seemed to matter. Aug 15, 1980... Went to (the mall) with Mom. Got china.