He swung his sleeves. One held the lucky Buddha stick, the other the leaf-wrapped rice ball. He was about to retrieve the meal to place in her hands when a quick gust of wind swept leaves across the clearing, making a hollow clicking sound, like someone fast approaching.
Taro whipped his head around. No one. He took a moment to gaze at the thousands of pale bones strewn about; on some, meat still clung, hair and clothes. The dentist, near whole, was crumpled where Taro had last seen him, praying to his own Buddha that would never arrive in time. Taro wondered when things would begin to move. Maybe the village men had just been teasing him all along. He didn’t want to stay and find out.
Taro was lumbering away when he heard someone call his name.
“Taro,” the voice said. “We need to talk.
