The food eaten by the man and boy was strictly rationed, but there was plenty of water in the stream, though it had to be boiled and strained through a cloth before it was drinkable. Danielson and Dean took turns performing this procedure.
Sometimes when Danielson began one of his seemingly endless and pointless narratives, Dean would try to listen and construct and fit it into some kind of coherent chronology. So much of what Danielson said concerning his life was contradictory and came in no particular order. He thought he had learned how to tune out the man’s disconnected ramblings.
On the fourth sunset in Fort Fubar, while Dean was gazing at the horizon, the Steyr in his hands, the wry realization came to him that he actually had absorbed a lot more than he would have guessed.
Danielson was born in what used to be called Indiana to a Farer family. He had joined up with the Trader’s group when he was in his early thirties, so he looked older than he truly was. Ryan and J.B. had only been with Trader a short while before he was cut loose.
Danielson had lived peaceably in Aten for a long time under the name of Osorkon. He shared counselor responsibilities with a man he referred to alternately as Mimses and Mel.
The names of his three wives were Pyatha, Flaresh and Iocol. He had three children, but all were dead now but his oldest daughter, Kela.
Something had happened in Aten, and Danielson had abandoned both Pharaoh’s service and his own daughter to return to this pesthole.
As the sun slowly sank out of sight, Danielson called to him from the doorway of the storage building, “Time to eat, boy.”
Dean pulled his gaze away from the color-splashed horizon and shifted the strap of the rifle on his shoulder. The Steyr was heavy, and constantly carrying it had worn a raw, tender abrasion on the skin of his right shoulder.
Inside the ramshackle building, Danielson stirred another of his stews simmering in a pot over a small fire. Without looking up, he said, “Tomorrow is the fourth day.”
Dean didn’t respond. He sat down cross-legged on the sandy floor and waited for Danielson to ladle the stew into a plate. The old man passed it to him, saying calmly, “If your pa isn’t back by sundown, I think you’d better figure on rolling on to Pharaoh’s tomb—the redoubt—by first light the day after.”
Dean spooned some of the tepid, very nearly tasteless sludge into his mouth and fixed his eyes on a distant, invisible point, somewhere over Danielson’s head.
The old man coughed a little self-consciously. “Can’t deny it’s been a pleasure having you here, son. Almost like having my own boy back with me. He was about your age when he—”
He coughed again and ate a mouthful of stew. Dean shifted his gaze and saw tears shining in the man’s melancholy gray eyes. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy.
Exhaling noisily, Danielson said, “Guess I didn’t know how lonesome I was. When you move out, I reckon I’ll go with you.”
Dean shook his head. “If my dad doesn’t show by noon tomorrow, I’m off to this Aten place, not to some Pharaoh’s tomb or redoubt.”
Danielson blinked at him. “That’s not a sound notion, son. If your pa hasn’t come back, then it means he can’t come back—”
“I’ll bring him back,” Dean declared fiercely. “And the rest of them, too. I’m not going off and leaving them, not knowing what’s happened to them.”
Tugging nervously at an earlobe, Danielson said quietly, “I don’t think your pa would like that, you ending up in the same kind of mess he’s in. If you ask me—”
“I’m not,” Dean snapped.
“—you’ll be taking a hell of a big risk. I’m afraid I can’t allow it.”
Dean dropped his plate and put his hand on the stock of the Steyr. “You going to try and stop me?” he challenged.
Man and boy locked gazes for a long moment. Danielson was the first to look away. “No,” he answered sadly. “Even if I could hog-tie you without getting myself gut-shot, I couldn’t keep you tied up all the time. I won’t try to stop you.”