For the first time in weeks, Anya slept deeply under the willows without fear of her captor. In the fickle manner of West Texas, as the temperate day drew to a close, a cold wind swept in clouds from the North. She roused shivering as the rain peppered her with sleet. Knowing she’d die if she just lay there, she managed to rake a bed of leaves and burrowed in, somehow surviving the bitter night. At first light, she emerged, battered but choosing life. The day warmed as though there had been no icy storm in the night.
Despite the beating she’d endured, she walked through the hours, often falling, then struggling back to her feet in search of help. Eventually, she stumbled upon a milk cow grazing in the distance. Laboriously, she made her way toward It, hoping it wouldn’t wander off. She stroked the gentle beast, before dropping to her knees, grasping an udder, and squirting warm milk into her mouth. Strengthened by the cow’s life-saving gift, she leaned against the kind beast, comforted by its warmth.. Anya kept pace with the cow, occasionally milking her or resting while the the beast grazed.Thankfully, the cow didn’t object to her company.
As the afternoon shadows lengthened, the cow seemed charged with purpose and picked up her pace. Anya took hold of her rope halter to keep up. As they climbed over a rise, a homestead came into view. Anya released the cow and she picked up the pace, trotting with purpose as her bag with its engorged udders swung side to side.
Mother and I spent a few days in Haddonfield, New Jersey, visiting with friends and relatives on the occasion on her eighty-second birthday. Haddonfield is a wonderful place to visit. Everything is in walking distance. We walked miles seeing all the sights, restaurants, and shops. We took the opportunity to attend a meeting at the Friends Meeting on Sunday. I thought Mother understood how meetings worked. We filed in and took our places in the lovely old meeting house. Mother leaned over to whisper something as soon as we were seated. I gestured there was no talking, so Mother, a staunch Southern Baptist, sat waiting for the services to start. Worshipers sat quietly meditating as Mother looked increasingly puzzled. Finally, she let me know she was ready to leave after about twenty minutes. She had a little difficulty understanding no talking in church. That twenty minutes was the longest I’ve ever known her to go without talking. 
He checked on the woman and children several times always finding them asleep. The children’s breathing was regular and less shallow. The pink of their cheeks faded as the fever dropped. Twice more he fed and diapered them and assisted the woman to the pot. The next two days were much the same, more feeding, more dosing with Dr. Marvel, more changing, and always, more washing. The little boy rallied first, trailing Joe. From time to time, he called for Mama, but overall seemed contented. Joe looked forward to the woman regaining her strength and assuming her responsibilities. She was attentive to the baby girl who still lay abed with her. Thankfully, the baby finally got hungry enough to accept the bottle after a few tries. It made it easier to get the Dr. Marvel’s in her, anyway. The woman could barely stay awake long enough to feed the baby but kept it at her side. On the fourth day, the woman began to eat regular food, though she mashed it first. One day, she coughed and spit a cracked molar into her palm, increasing Joe’s guilt about burying her alive, though he still didn’t remember hitting her with the shovel. Joe had hopes when she’d learn some English soon, since he didn’t understand a word she said when she did speak to the baby or cry out in pain upon moving. She had picked up on coffee, milk, baby, hurt, boy, pot, and a few other words, but there was no conversation yet. She never called him “Joe.”
Nutsrok 