"I dunno. Guess he didn't need it."
A silence fell, and then Mike said as they passed the strong light of a shop window, returning down bustling M Street toward 28th: "Say—you been running—or sitting by a fire? You look almost sunburnt. And look—"
They stopped dead while Mike put a grubby forefinger on a mark on Chris's jaw. "I never noticed that before. It shows up white an' plain. Must have been a pretty deep cut ya had there!"
For the first time in what felt like hours, Chris smiled, and the smile became a grin.
"It sure was!" he said reminiscently.
"Oh—an' by the way," Mike said much farther along as he left Chris to go on to his own house, "your Aunt Rachel called my ma and told her your mother was so much better she could come home soon. Seems that your father's on his way back too." He walked off and then turned to call from a quarter-block away, "Bet you'll be glad to have your own folks at home?"
Chris's grin deepened but he did not reply, nor even wave, for fear of dropping the bottle.
N Street, then Dumbarton Avenue, dropped behind him, and he came to Happy's Grocery with the bookshop on the opposite corner. He stood looking at his lighted windows, the lighted windows of his house, remembering a time when he and Amos had seen only a wooded ridge and a burnt-out campfire.
Something stirred in his mind, and after finding the front door unlatched, he eased himself in and up the stairs as quietly as he could. He did not want to face his Aunt Rachel for a few minutes longer.
In his own room he shut the door and carefully lifted the Mirabelle in its bottle to the place of honor on top of his chest of drawers. Then he stood looking at his reflection in the small mirror hung askew near the window.