The rod is gone by the time Gaeta returns; so is whatever figure that was in the tent. A candle is on in the house, and though the curtains are drawn, the crack of light beneath them reveals a shadow moving as he putters around his house.

When he knocks, there’s a long pause. Then the shadow moves to the door, and there’s the sound of the lock turning.

Still in his pajamas, Mulcahy looks haggard in the weak light of early morning and dim candles, pale and wraithlike. His thin hair is a mess, his shoulders and eyes slump like a sun-starved plant left to droop as he grips his staff for balance. He looks miserable in the way that the hideously sleep-deprived do. And yet, seeing Gaeta at the door, he lifts just a little bit.

“Oh,” he creaks softly, voice still rusted with sleep. “Gaeta. Hello, son. Do you need something?”