Bernard stood at the grave for a time, then turned back and walked down the hill. As he walked, he went over the events of the day in his mind. There was a small chance that he had saved the world and a small chance that he was the son of God. The only thing he was certain of was that Martha was still gone, and that he still had nine shrubs to plant in Mr. McGavin’s front yard.

When he got to his house, the closet no longer glowed, the newscasters were no longer morbid and the dog was just as eager to see him as ever. And still Bernard Belling was unhappy. He sat on the couch, letting the feeling of desolation return, encompassing him like a warm sweater.

“Bernard,” she said, “Knock that shit off.”