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necklace under the fluorescent light. There was no manufacturer's mark.
    'Wonder why they wanted to get rid of it?' mused Rachel acidly.
    Larry repeated his remark. 'Jo Howell said Dean wanted you to have it. He's real bad, just real bad, Rachel. I don't even like to think about it. I didn't even recognise him. All them bandages over his face. I don't even know if they feed him with a spoon or a tube.'
    'Dean never liked me either', said Rachel.
    Larry did not dispute this. 'Dean was funny, sometimes, in some ways.'
    'Real funny', said Rachel, with distaste, 'but if he's bad off like you say, then I feel sorry for him. I sure would hate to be laid-up in a house with Jo Howell keeping me company solid eight-to-five. And I really do feel sorry for Sarah, 'cause this wasn't her fault and now she's stuck with it.'
    Her husband nodded solemnly. He felt very sorry for Sarah, sorrier for her in a way than for Dean himself. It was impossible to feel sympathy for that thing in the bed, with the pulsating black slit in the bandages, that really wasn't like a mouth at all.
    'Did he lose anything?' asked Rachel. 'Like a arm, or eye or something?'
    'He may have lost an eye, I think, but he looked like he was all there.'
    'D'you count his fingers?' asked Rachel, and Larry shook his head.
    'That would have been rude', he said.
    Rachel weighed the necklace in her hand. 'There's something funny about all of this', she said and stared at her husband out of the corner of her eye. 'This thing didn't come from Wool-worth's.'
    The sun had sunk behind the screen of diseased pines that backed the scanty property owned by Jo Howell, and the room where Dean lay was now in complete darkness. Jo had been too lazy to get up and switch on a lamp, so that she might have continued with her sewing.
    Presently, Sarah's figure appeared in the doorway, a black shadow interrupting the dim light that struggled across the dark living room from the kitchen on the other side of the house. 'Jo, will you get the light so I don't fall with this tray?' Sarah had prepared Dean's supper, several bowls of soft, mashed foods.
    'Can't see a thing, Sarah. If I was to get up, I might knock you down.'
    Sarah knew better than to argue with her mother-in-law, though it was patently impossible that Jo would come in contact with her if she attempted only to switch on the bulb that was not three feet away from her. Sarah moved into the room very carefully, but still nearly tripped on the edge of the threadbare oval carpet beneath the foot of the bed. She set the tray down on the night table, turned on the small lamp that was there and then moved the straight chair to the bedside, just at Dean's head.
    Spooning the food into the narrow black slit that represented Dean's mouth was an odious task to Sarah and she wished to heaven that Jo would do it. The old woman claimed that she felt no repugnance at all when she looked on her son,' but', she said toSarah, 'you'rehis wife, andyou ought to feed him. It'snotfor me to come between a man and a woman. I won't be accused of that!'
    Sarah set the tray in her lap and took up the spoon. Conversation even with Jo, she thought, might distract her from this tedious, unpleasant ritual. 'Bad at the plant too', she said, referring to the heat, which was still very much in evidence in the room, though the sun had gone down.
    'I hope they rot in hell! Hell won't be hot enough for 'em!' exclaimed Jo, with sudden bitterness.
    'Who?' said Sarah automatically.
    'Ever'body in that whole damn place, that's who!'
    Sarah had heard Jo Howell go on before; it was always in the same tone, and always to the same effect. Sarah composed herself to listen, and was actually thankful for the distraction.
    'Dean', said his mother in a low voice, with her sewing not yet picked up off the floor beside her chair, 'Dean was the only good man in Pine Cone, in this whole damn town of layabouts and whores, and he was the only one of 'em to go in the army. They was all in that