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was looking at him blankly.
    This is the way it is in dreams. You speak and cannot be heard.
    Then he realized he was speaking Irish, which the Carmichaels did not
     have, not even Phoebe. He sat on the mare, dumb, staring at her.
    â€œCome inside, it’s all right,” she said. “I
     promise.”
    Something inside him gave way and he started weeping.
    Reaching up, Phoebe touched his leg. “Oh don’t you, Fergus!
     Can you eat, do you think? Come inside, I’ll give you a cup of broth and some of
     our bread.” She touched his hand.
    â€œYou be careful of that wild creature, miss,” the sergeant
     warned.
    SHE CROSSED the farmyard, and he stumbled after her. She
     had nothing to say. Her clean clothes; her brown hair smelling of light. She knew she
     was going to live a long time, marry a farmer’s son, have sons of her own. Fergus
     was going to die soon, and that was the difference between them. When they came to the
     kitchen door she pushed it open then took his elbow, pulling him inside. The door boomed
     shut behind him. He was standing on warm flags in the farmhouse kitchen, a large room
     with low beams and a tin-plated range throwing heat that smashed into his chest
     painfully, as though the last thing he’d been keeping safe had been broken
     into.
    Your soul lived in your chest, did it not.
    The fish-faced officer looked up from the table, where he and
     Phoebe’s brothers had been eating ham and cheese on toast and drinking porter.
     Farmer Carmichael who had been scribbling on a scrap of paper looked up, surprise on his
     face, sour as cheese.
    â€œWhat do you suppose you are doing, Pheeb?” her brother Saul
     demanded.
    â€œHe must be fed. Look at him!”
    â€œThey were fever cases up there, Pheeb. He wants keeping outside, or
     we’ll catch it.”
    â€œI shall give him something to eat first.”
    The tin-plated range was throwing wild heat. Fergus, light-headed, could
     feel himself starting to sway. If he fell down now he knew he would die here on the
     kitchen floor, in front of them.
    Phoebe looked around and saw him stagger. “Fergus, sit down. Look at
     you, boy. Oh look at you.” She guided him to a three-legged stool and pushed him
     until he sat down.
    â€œIt was their choice to stay, it was,” her brother Saul was
     saying.
    â€œWell, whatever it was, it’s done now,” said Phoebe.
     “Listen up, old Fergus, sweetheart. We must put some nourish in you. They are
     going to take you away, you see. Abner is taking you in the cart. You’ll need a
     little strength, won’t you?”
    He was powerless. All he could do to hurt them was die in their kitchen,
     and he wasn’t ready to die.
    There was a red ham in a pan on top of the range. Stropping a knife,
     Phoebe briskly cut off a slice, sawed two cuts of wheat bread, and gave him the food. He
     took it and could feel the salt swelling up his lips as he chewed.
    Carmichael at the table was back at writing, steel nib scratching the
     paper.
    â€œThey’ll have to admit him to Scariff workhouse,”
     Carmichael said to the officer. “I pay the poor rates after all, and they’re
     a burden. He’ll be cared for, they’ll feed him.”
    Crouching on the stool, Fergus ate furtively from his hands, feeling heat
     exploding off the range and soaking into him like something dangerous.
    â€œThere, you see, you’ll be all right,” Phoebe said.
     “I’ll come to visit you.”
    He watched her carry more bread and butter to the men at table and refill
     their noggins from the jug of porter. The room was quiet except for the click ofthe fire and the scrape of knives on plates and the slap of liquid
     pouring. He knew she was lying. It stung her to have to look at him; she wanted him
     away, perhaps more than any of them did.
    Fergus wolfed his food. She was feeding him up for the road.
    Abner Carmichael went out to