He stood up, turned toward them. The kids—so full of life and the love of living, so full of the myriad curiosities that made living a colorful vibrant thing.
"This one here. Over here—a big tall wooden one."
Doug heard her quick intake of breath, turned to her.
"Before the telecall, Doug. Before they took me. A helicopter came, from the electronics place ... they brought that box, and I—"
In quick strides he was beside Mike and Terry, and everything inside him was suddenly churned up, cold, hot....
Mike had wrenched a section of planking loose, had reached inside.
"I got the label, Dad.... High-Speed Blower-Rack, With Double Blower, Model 4-L532, two each—"
The final, hellish irony. As though it were not enough to fail, but to be mocked as he failed, as though Fate—or was it Providence?—could not close the incident without at least a gentle laugh at him, a cruel laugh to make light of all his confusion, his efforts and all that had driven him to make them. Doug wondered if there would be enough of the strength he would need, when he died, to laugh back.
The planking squawked as Terry pried with Mike's broadsword.