This one is from Chapter 3.
Terrill was almost home.
They would be home too soon. A bleak prospect, that. Da would be gone; and everyone would be talking about him, on and on. And Terrill would have to take on some new role, whatever it might be, or whatever his family might decide it should be.
It could be a long time before he went anywhere again.
The pain of giving up the journey he would have made with the friends of his year, the joyful adventure that he would never experience, pierced him afresh, a pang as cold as the season to come.
And this cold season, Da would not be there building up the fire, or draping a blanket over Ma as she slept, or preparing the garden for its coming nap. Terrill would never again see him come in from the garden, smelling of soil and fresh air, rubbing his hands together to warm them, spreading the dirt on them in the process.
A scene he had forgotten — that he had wanted to forget — came back to him, as clearly if he had remembered it over and over. He was very young. His father’s mother had been sick, moving slowly, not talking much; and then she had gone away, hugging him as tightly as she still could, and Da had gone with her. And after a long time, more days than Terrill could count yet, Da had come home again. He had come through the door, and looked around, stared around, as if everything had become strange and different while he was gone. It had scared Terrill enough to make him cry.
What would it be like for Terrill to walk through that door, with his father gone?
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