I wasn't home when the men from Toyama came to tell Grandmother about the train wreck. I was out in the woods, collecting pieces of log and fallen sticks for the fire. I could have just gone to the woodpile behind the house, but it was getting low and I knew Grandfather wouldn't have time to cut more for a while- he was working too hard. And I couldn't cut any wood myself, since I wasn't allowed to use the axe yet. But there was plenty of deadfall in the woods, and since the last snow had finally melted, it would all be reasonably dry. Besides, once I was outside in the comfortably cool evening air, I felt like exploring a little. I hadn't been outside much during that school break- it had been an unpleasantly cold and damp spring, more like late autumn than anything else- and I wanted to see what was growing now that it had warmed up a little.

The answer to that was not much. There was a little green grass, some buds on the trees and bushes, and a few green sprouts here and there, but no leaves or flowers. Mildly annoyed by such a stubbornly cold, wet spring, I went down to the nearest creek but was only mildly encouraged to see that it had broken through the ice that had held it all winter. I was feeling unusually divided and moody anyway; school would be starting again in a little over a week, and though I was looking forward to spring soccer, I was also feeling anxious about what our teacher had told us at the end of the term: He was leaving, retiring with the winter, and we would have a new teacher in April. The rumor that had gone around directly after this announcement was that this new teacher was a very strict and stern man, and no one was very pleased with the thought. And now it was the end of March and we'd soon find out if it was true or not. I consoled myself with the thought that at least it was only for one term, if it turned out that he was mean, but it wasn't much consolation. For all I knew, he be too strict to pass me to fifth grade. Then, as I reached down to pick up a stone and throw it into the water, I noticed the canvas wood-bag looped over my arm and remembered- guiltily- what I was supposed to be doing.

I must have wandered around in the woods for at least an hour and a half, filling the carrier with the largest sticks and branches I could find. There were quite a few good pieces, and I figured the snowstorms must have knocked a lot of old wood down. When it grew too dark to see clearly, I gave up and started back to the house. The moon was rising as I reached our clearing and hurried towards the steps, and as I paused to put my coat back on, I noticed the lamp-light shining out the window. That made me frown; we hardly ever turned the lights on before Grandfather came home, and never kept them on very long. Candles were cheaper and a lot more reliable, though not as bright.

As I picked up the wood-carrier again, the door opened unexpectedly and I recoiled in total astonishment as two men in suits walked down the stairs to the ground. One of them turned and bowed towards the door, and only then did I see that Grandmother was standing in the doorway, the light behind her and her hand clasped at her throat. All my shock turned to concern and I ran to the house, dropping the carrier on the ground. "Who are you? What do you want?" I demanded, skidding to a stop on the wet grass beside the stair-railing. I had no idea what business they had, but it couldn't be anything good, or Grandmother wouldn't look like that. I believe I had some thoughts of bill collectors or lawyers, though that didn't answer why they had come at night or why Grandmother was so upset.

Neither of the men looked at me or responded to my questions. Furious at being ignored, I stepped towards the man who had bowed, who was now following his companion towards the unpaved road. "Who are you?" I repeated angrily to their backs. If they were going to be rude, then so was I. "What are you doing-"

"Grandson, bring the wood inside," Grandmother interrupted, in a voice I had never heard before. She didn't seem angry at me, but something made me close my mouth and hurry to obey her.

"Grandmother, are you okay?" I asked anxiously as soon as I got into the house. "What did they want?"

Grandmother didn't sit down in her chair or go into the kitchen to work on the meal I could smell cooking. She didn't even turn off the lamp or tell me to put the wood in the box, just stood staring at the door behind me, as if she could still see the men. "They came to bring news," she said, in that same dull voice.

It had to be awful news, to make her look like that, I thought. I upended the wood-bag into the box, picked up a few sticks that fell on the floor and tossed them into the fireplace, which blazed up. I didn't take off my coat as I dropped the canvas and went to her; I was cold now- inside. "What did they say?" I asked uncertainly, wishing that Grandfather was there to handle things. What could a nine-and-a-half-year-old do about it, whatever 'it' was? But he wouldn't be home for another half hour at least, and that left her and me.

"There was an accident." Grandmother closed her eyes and then opened them, focusing on me, and took my hands in her cold, shaking ones. "The commuter train from Toyama-" She stopped. I waited, knowing, frozen with the fear of what she would say next, but she said nothing. The fire snapped behind me, the electric light buzzed quietly, and whatever was cooking sizzled in the pan, but Grandmother stood silent, her gaze going right through me.

At last I couldn't bear it anymore. I whispered, "Grandmother?" and she let go of my hands.

"The trains," she said simply. "They collided when one of them jumped off the tracks. They don't know why it happened. Hundreds of people were killed." She paused again, closing her eyes. "He...was one." She turned and moved slowly out of the room, disappearing around the corner and down the hall.

I stood where I was, blank and numb and disbelieving. Finally, automatically, I moved to turn off the electric light and make sure whatever was cooking didn't burn. I had no appetite for it, but I knew better than to let good food be wasted.

I didn't cry for Grandfather. I couldn't.

It had been easy to cry for my father. I had known him, but not well; I missed him, but I had never relied on him. He had been distant from me in many ways, and I'd suspected, after a so long, that he might have been killed. I had already gotten used to his absence- physically, if not emotionally.

But Grandfather...Grandfather had always been there, until he just suddenly wasn't. I couldn't understand it, couldn't accept it. How could he be dead when Grandmother and I depended on him so much? It wasn't possible, it mustn't be true, it had to be a terrible mistake. Sooner or later he'd come home and laugh and tell us how silly we'd been to believe that he'd die in a train wreck. And Grandmother would smile again and the dull look would leave her eyes and she'd tease me again, or scold me for some little thing and we'd be happy.

Denial's a powerful force. I let myself think that Grandfather might be hurt- in fact, that was the best reason for why he hadn't come home yet- but I totally shut out any thought of him dying. Even after the funeral.

It all came crashing down, of course. Grandmother did it, after supper a few nights after school started up again. I was doing my homework by the fire when she said unexpectedly, "I really don't know what to do."

I looked up from my math and thought how strange it was to see her doing nothing but sitting. Usually she sewed or read at night. "To do?" I asked cautiously, thinking she meant one of those things.

"About money," she explained, staring at the fire. "I have looked though his accounts...there is life insurance, but it is not enough, and I am too old and brittle to work, even if anyone would hire me. And you are too young. I don't know what to do," she repeated, and was silent.

I was silent, too; the words 'life insurance' were searing into my mind and I was starting to shake. I knew quite well what it meant, because Grandfather had explained it to me after Father died, saying Father hadn't had any. It meant that when someone died, their family would get money, instead of the wages that person would have earned. It had sounded like charity to me, until Grandfather mentioned that it was something one had to pay to have. So if Grandfather's company was paying Grandmother that money now, that meant...

I put what it meant out of my head and didn't respond when Grandmother said she would go into Azu the next day and see what could be done. There were people in the village who would help her decide what was best. I didn't know, then, that she was seriously considering turning me over to the county officials in order to be sure that I didn't suffer from the poverty that was sitting at our door.

I had the nightmare that night, one I'd had once or twice a week ever since my father's funeral. It was the same each time: I dreamed I was in the mountains, mountains I had never seen before but recognized as part of the Himalayas in India. They were different from the mountains of Japan; taller, more ragged, and covered in snow. I was high up, looking down at a valley far below and wondering if the little dark spot was a town or city, when I heard a noise behind me and turned to see Father. He had his back to me and I recognized the heavy fleece jacket Grandmother had given him. His cameras and equipment hung at his sides, bumping against him as he walked away from me and I called out and ran after him.

No matter how many times I called him, he never turned. No matter how fast I ran, I couldn't catch up. He kept walking steadily away from me, drawing farther and farther into the snowy surroundings to become a distant figure, and then a shadowy speck...and then to vanish altogether. I kept running, breathless in the high altitude but knowing I had to reach him-

And then he was there, lying in his coffin at my feet, his cameras gone, his clothes bloody, his face a death-mask. I threw myself down in the snow, crying, wailing, pounding on the wood with my hands, cursing the poachers who had murdered him-

"Wake up, Ryo." Grandmother's voice sounded sleepy and sad. "Wake up, my child. It's your nightmare, little love; tell it to go away."

I sat up and held on to her, still crying, but not for Father. For Grandfather, who would never come in to comfort me and tell me little stories about Father and his childhood and the things they used to do together...never again.