Every year on July 3, he wanders out to the Virginia Monument on Confederate Avenue and settles at the base beneath Traveller’s hoof and watches the dads with their park maps, the moms in their sun hats smearing sunscreen on their kids, and the bored kids rolling their eyes while staring at the skinny boxes they hold. Phones, they call them. He doesn’t keep up with that stuff. So much changes all the time that he gave up tracking it ages ago. They clump in groups, usually gathering around a lady in forest green or a guy in a light blue short-sleeved button-down shirt. The blues look down on the greens and vice versa. “Want the wrong answer? Ask a ranger,” say the blues. “Old guys with no hobbies or friends,” say the greens about the blues. “Get a life.”

They walk around the monument, pointing and gesturing, talking about Lee and Traveller and Pickett and Armistead and Garnett and the cannonade and where the clumps of soldiers were. They take pictures with their magic boxes. There’s always the dad who thinks he knows more than the blue shirt but doesn’t. That guy wants to be teacher’s pet and impress his kids all at the same time, but he just annoys all of them.

Then the guide will say, “Are we ready?” They nod assent and start on a mown trail that roughly traces where William marched ages ago.

“Excuse me, sir,” a woman says walking toward him.

They are never talking to him—he thinks he has only been noticed or seen two or three times over the years.

“Sir?” she says. She wears a pair of khaki shorts, a light blue T shirt, and sunglasses. She holds hands with a tow-headed kid maybe seven years old who wears a gray kepi and carries a toy musket.

“I don’t mean to bother you. My boy here … this is Jason … he wanted to get a picture with you.”

“Me?” the man says.

“If that’s ok,” says the woman. “His great great great granddaddy was in the Stonewall Brigade, and he loves the stories of his granddaddy. There ain’t so many reenactors anymore. So I thought it would be nice to get a picture. If you don’t mind.”

The man stares at them for a moment. “Ma’am, the Stonewall Brigade didn’t fight here,” he says. “They was over the hill yonder. Out to the east.”

“I know that,” she says. “But we wanted to walk Pickett’s Charge and seeing as how you’re here in uniform and he loves the ole stories, I just thought …”

“All right,” says the man. “Might not want to stand too close. I can’t remember my last bath.”

Jason giggles and moves toward him. “What’s your name?”

“Don’t trouble him,” says the woman. “Let’s just get your picture and not bother the man.”

“Ain’t no bother,” says the man. “Just ain’t heard people call me by my name in ages.”

“I will call you by your name,” says the boy.

“It’s William,” says the man. “Nothin special.”

William stands and Jason edges up to his side. The lady uses her skinny box to take a couple pictures. “Thank you so much,” she says. “His daddy is deployed. He’ll love getting this.”

The boy touches James’s musket. “Is your gun real?”

“No, honey,” says the woman. “They can’t have real guns out here anymore.”

“It’s real,” says William. “It’s a Springfield rifle.”

“It must be an antique or a relic then?” she says.

“No, ma’am. Just a regular Springfield rifle.”

“You don’t have to call me, ma’am,” she says. “I’m Kathleen.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says William.

“I want a real one,” says Jason.

Kathleen motions with her head. “Come on, hon. Let’s let the man be.”

“Y’all have a nice day,” says William.

Kathleen and Jason start up the paved trail to the large field leading to Cemetery Ridge, but then Jason turns back. “Mister, we ain’t got a guide. You wanna walk the charge with us?”

“He doesn’t want to walk all that way in this heat with his gun,” says Kathleen. “Let him stay in the shade.”

William starts slowly toward them. “I can walk y’all up there. Done it plenty of times.”

“Sweet!” says Jason.

“You really don’t have to,” says Kathleen.

“I don’t mind, ma’am,” says William. “Don’t get too many southern boys these days lookin to walk in our footsteps.”

“It’s awful kind of you,” says Kathleen. “He’d love havin his daddy or granddaddy here to tell him the stories. And I can’t afford a guide.”

William looks down at Jason. “If you’re gonna do it like we did it, put your musket up on your shoulder like this.”

Jason looks at him seriously and shoulders his toy musket from the visitor’s center. Together, they start on the mown path, trailing the other groups by seventy or eighty yards.

“It was hotter’n blazes that day,” says William as they walk. “We were tired of waitin and all itchin to go. The cannons fired at each other for more’n an hour, and we were just stuck in the trees and in the fields.”

“Cannon balls were flying at you?” says Jason as they step languidly over the warm grass.

“Cannon balls and shells. The shells explode in the air above you. The balls go bouncing along. The bouncing ones knock off heads and arms and legs. The shells spray lead around. One of them is what got me up yonder near that stone wall.”

“One got you?” says Jason.

“Sure,” says William. “I’ll tell you about it when we get there.”

“It didn’t really get him,” says Kathleen. “He’s a reenactor. He pretends to be one of the men that got killed.”

“No, ma’am,” says William. “I assure you it got me good.”

Kathleen laughs. “All right then. I suppose it makes for a better story.”

William sighs and keeps walking. The air is hot and thick with dust from the crops of corn and beans growing in the surrounding fields. They step around horse manure and over small patches of mud created by the pounding of hooves and rainstorms earlier in the week.

“We were all glad to get going,” says William, “so we could shoot back. I knew men that got blown to pieces while we waited to march. That’s the worst.”

“Wow,” says Jason.

“My unit started out back near the statue. We marched more or less on the route we’re taking only it wasn’t so pleasant then. The Yanks had been holding most of their artillery fire, and when we stepped out of the trees, they let us have it.”

“Their cannons?” says Jason.

“Yes, sir,” says William. “They fooled us. Made us think that our cannons wiped out theirs. But we got out into the field and found out that’s not what had happened.”

Jason swatted away flies that buzzed around him.

“The shells were whizzing around us like those flies around your head. Wasn’t too long before arms and legs were flying off, men were going down. Imagine walking along and there’s your ma or your pa, and bang, their head gets knocked off.”

“Okay, Mr., uh, William,” says Kathleen.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

The ground gradually rises, and they come to a first small crest. As they do, they see two other men in Confederate uniforms walking toward them. One is tall with a long black and gray beard, while the other is shorter, clean-shaven, trailing a half step beyond the older man.

“Oh Lord,” mutters William.

“Whatsa matter?” says Jason.

“These fellas . . . they never learn,” says William.

“You know them?” says Kathleen.

“Yes, ma’am. Forty-second Mississippi,” says William.

“Hello there, Lieutenant Cocke,” the older man calls out from about twenty paces away.

“Mornin’, Captain Clark, Private Clark,” William says back.

“Y’all found some company, I see,” says Captain Clark. “Some of your people?”

William sighs heavily. “Thomas, I tole you for years now. Ain’t any more of my people.”

“Have you heard any word of Albie?” says the younger man.

William shakes his head. “Jonathan, we go through this every year. He’s gone. No one found him. No one’s gonna find him. No one’s lookin for him.”

“Hole up there now, sir” says Captain Clark. “Ain’t got cause to talk to Johnny like that. People are looking for Albie. We are. Me and Johnny.”

“That’s not what I mean,” says William. “You know that.”

“People found you. Look at these two. How did they find you?” says Captain Clark.

“I don’t rightly know, sir. I was at my usual spot when the lady and her squire approached with their magic box.”

“You see, then, sir,” says Captain Clark, “that it is not hopeless, that we are all looking for Albie and others might be lookin for us.”

“No one’s lookin for you,” says William. “No one’s lookin for me. No one’s lookin for Albie. No one’s lookin for us.”

“They could not have found you if they weren’t looking for you,” says Captain Clark.

Kathleen clears her throat. “We, uh, weren’t looking for Mr. William, Captain. He was just there at the monument and we asked for a picture, and then Jason asked if Mr. William could join us on our walk.”

Captain Clark’s dark eyes flash, and he looks sharply at Jason. “You must be interested in the Cause, son.”

“The Cause?” says Jason.

”Yessuh, the Cause,” says the captain.

”Captain,” says William, “I believe you were searching for Albie not lecturing on the Cause?”

The captain’s eyes dart from Jason to William and back again. “Yessuh, yes. My boy, on your walk, be sure to ask Lieutenant Cocke about the Cause. Private Clark and I must find Albie. Good day to y’all.”

They tip their caps and shuffle southwest toward the observation tower.

”What was that all about?” Kathleen says, brushing a strand of dirty blonde hair behind her ear and squinting through her sunglasses.

”Damn fools are too far south and headed the wrong way,” says William, “but they never listen anyway.” He nods to keep walking and they turn east again and start to dip back down.

”What do you mean?”

”Well, it’s like this,” says William. “Captain Clark and his boy Jonathan there were 42nd Mississippi. They both got killed on the first day of the battle. Another son was along. Albert. They call him Albie. His officer told him he could sit out the rest of the fight seeing as how he lost his dad and brother, but he wouldn’t hear of it, swore revenge, and got himself killed during this here charge on the third day.”

”Oh my,” says Kathleen. “The way y’all stay in character is amazing.”

”The 42nd was never down this far. He was two hundred yards north. But that doesn’t matter nowadays either.”

”What do you mean?”

William looks at the Emmitsburg Road and sees two trucks fly by. “Some guys, after they fell, had a tough time getting used to it. Always wanted to hang around, find other people, see who came for them. For their bodies and personal effects. Most of us eventually accept it and move on. We all die, anyway, right?”

”Uh, right,” says Kathleen.

”Those two, though … it’s July 3, 1863, every day for them.”

”I guess that’s what reenactors do, though, right?” says Kathleen.

William takes a deep breath and looks up at the wide blue sky. He glances across the field. Ahead of them, a family has paused on the trail. Two of the kids are lying in the grass, pretending to be wounded or killed—they have visitor’s center muskets too, and those are next to their “bodies.” Dad is standing over them and pointing toward the Bloody Angle, while Mom is snapping pictures with her magic box. William looks at Jason.

”What’s your daddy do in the service?”

William starts walking again, so Jason and Kathleen do so as well.

”He’s an officer in the navy,” says Jason.

“Paul has been at sea about half of Jason’s life,” says Kathleen. “We’re based in Norfolk.”

“What manner of ship?” says William.

“I forget what it’s called,” says Jason. “But they fire missiles at bad guys. He’s actually done that.”

Kathleen glances at Jason. “You’re not supposed to tell people Daddy told you that. It’s classified.”

“Mr. William won’t tell no one, right?” says Jason.

“I’m not even sure what you’re talking about,” says William. “Your daddy is a lucky man, though.”

“Why?” says Jason.

“He’s got you and your Ma. Most men who die in war don’t have a wife or kids. When their brothers and sisters and parents die, they don’t have anyone. No one is looking for them or thinking of them anymore. But if something got your Daddy’s ship, that’s not how it would be for him.”

Kathleen looks at him. “We try not to focus on things like that.”

“Of course,” says William. “My apologies, ma’am.”

Then Jason says, “Lieutenant William, what did the captain mean by the Cause?”

William looks ahead and says, “He’s a damn fool stuck in the past and talking about something that has nothing to do with anything now.” He points ahead. “Up ahead, you see the road where your motor wagons go?”

“Cars and trucks?” says Jason.

“Yes, sir. That’s the Emmitsburg Road. We had to cross that, and there was a farmer’s fence that held us up. A lot of men died there. General Garnett was on his horse just in front of me, and he couldn’t cross till we got that fence knocked down. And those fellas from the 42nd Mississippi, well, most of them didn’t make it past that fence at all. It was the Virginians that done that. And the North Carolinians, if you ask them.”

Out of the corner of his eye, as they continue toward the road, William sees a figure moving along from the southeast. By the man’s gait, William knows who it is.

“Damnation,” he mutters, then says, “My apologies, ma’am.”

“What’s wrong?” says Kathleen.

“Halloo! Ho, there!” cries the man from afar. He is hobbling with the aid of a musket, one leg badly disabled.

“All the crazies are out today, ma’am,” says William.

They keep moving, which draws them closer to the limping man. As they near him, Jason recoils and exclaims, “Sick!”

“Oh wow,” says Kathleen. “You all do really go all out with the makeup and all, but you should really think of how you might traumatize a child.”

The man draws to within ten yards and stops. His left thigh is oozing blood, and half his left cheek is gone, exposing broken teeth that were also shattered by the shrapnel that shredded his face.

“Lieutenant, sir, what means the lady?” says the man. “I am neither an actor nor a woman of the night and hence wear no makeup.”

William shakes his head. “Ma’am, Jason, this is the mayor of Austin, Texas, and lieutenant colonel in the Fourth Texas, Benjamin Franklin Carter.”

“You’re named after Ben Franklin?” Jason exclaims.

“A truly great American,” says Carter. “Perhaps the greatest American ever.”

“Didn’t he want the turkey to be the national bird?” says Kathleen.

Carter just shrugs. “He was a great diplomat. Why, if we had him today, we likely would not be in this here War between the States.”

“Why?” says Jason. “Would y’all have given up slavery?”

Carter shakes his mangled head. “Son, this here War is not about slavery. It’s about our southern rights. It’s about determining to live as we see fit.”

“But y’all wouldn’t have given up slavery without the War,” says the boy.

“Oh son, none of us wants slavery to last forever,” says Carter.

“But in school . . .”

“Let him be,” says Kathleen to Jason. “He’s a reenactor. He has to play the part of what things were like in his day.”

Carter looks at William. “What means the lady?”

“Things are different now,” says William. “Look around you, sir. There’s black folk and white folk and all sortsa folk all over this here battlefield.”

“There certainly are not,” says Carter.

“I suppose if you ain’t lookin for em, you ain’t seein em either,” says William.

“That is where you are wrong, sir. I am looking for them. For at least one of them, anyway, sir.”

William shakes his head. “I forgot.”

“My body servant, Lieutenant. Henry Johnson. Have you seen him? Dark fellow, taller than most of his kind but still shorter than I am. Strong. He was behind the lines. I was hoping he would come up and see to my convalescence.”

“We have not seen him,” says William. “But we’ll be sure to send him along if we do.”

“Reverend Fisher’s house. Reverend Dr. Samuel Fisher,” says Carter.

“I know, sir,” says William.

“These are fatal wounds, Lieutenant. I would like Henry to see to it that I get a Christian burial.”

“We will do our best, sir,” says William.

“Very well,” says Carter. “I will be on my way.” And with that, he starts shuffling with his crutch again.

They watch for a few moments before Kathleen says, “What was that all about?”

“I tole you,” says William. “Some fellas, it’s July 3, 1863, forever. Mayor Carter there was leading his men into battle on July 2. He was on the side of that bigger hill over there, Big Round Top they call it now. His unit got enfiladed by artillery fire, and he got it in the face and leg. Naomi Fisher was the wife of Reverend Fisher. She had a son from her first marriage who got killed at Second Manassas by Mayor Carter’s people. The good mayor saw to it that her son was given a proper burial, and Carter put the boy in his own coat. So when Naomi heard he got wounded here, she sent for him so she could care for him. His slave eventually got through the lines, and when Carter died, they all gave him that Christian burial he wanted.”

“Is he still buried up here?” says Kathleen.

“Yes, ma’am. A church cemetery not too far from here. I think it bothers him that his people never brought him home. But that’s not what bothers him the most. That’s not why he won’t accept his fate and move on.”

“What’s his problem?” Jason says.

William looks ahead and sees the family that had been posing has now moved across the Emmitsburg Road. Cars fly by, and William thinks, After all this time, how do these guys not see?

“Henry Johnson,” says William. “That’s what he can’t get over.”

“His servant?” says Jason.

“His slave,” says William. “We all had em. All us officers, anyway. And we thought, really thought, we were doin right by them. Treatin em like the Bible says to. Helping them out. At least, that’s what we told ourselves. When you’re like me, you got nothin to do but think. And after a while you think, well, if I were Henry Johnson, I probably woulda gone and done what he went and did.”

“What did he do?” says Jason.

William motions for them to walk, and Kathleen and Jason fall into line with him. They move ever closer to the road, and they can now see the throngs gathered at the Bloody Angle and around the Copse of Trees, the so-called High Water Mark of the Confederacy.

“Henry went through the lines, stayed with Colonel Carter until his death, and saw to it that Carter got his burial.”

“I suppose that’s a nice story,” says Kathleen.

“Well, now, think about it. When our army pulled out of here, where was Henry?”

“Around here, I guess,” says Kathleen.

“And what is here?” says William.

“Pennsylvania. Gettysburg or somewhere close.”

“What does that mean to Henry?” says William.

“Ohhh,” says Kathleen. “He was free.”

“Yes,” says William. “And there was lotsa people here to help runaways. Plus there was Mr. Lincoln’s Proclamation.”

“So Henry didn’t go back to the Rebels,” says Jason.

“No, sir,” says William. “And this is what Colonel Carter can’t deal with. Henry went down to Baltimore and joined up with the colored troops. He went south to fight our people in Petersburg. And that’s where he died.”

“Wow,” says Kathleen.

“No way,” says Jason. “That’s cool.”

“Colonel Carter can’t get over it.”

“Why is that?” says Kathleen.

“I don’t know. I suppose you can’t go around saying that your slaves are just like your family and then have them take up arms against you at the first chance they get.”

They slow down as they approach the road and pause as a large truck full of chickens in cages trundles by.

“I guess that means your whole way of life was a lie,” says Kathleen.

“I suppose so,” says William. “Now, I think Mayor Carter wants to find Henry so he can ask Henry why he took up weapons against the family. But he won’t ever get satisfaction—Henry doesn’t come around here.”

“Do you know where he is?” says Jason.

“His body is in a federal cemetery in Virginia. His soul, I suppose, is anywhere it wants to be, and I imagine Gettysburg doesn’t rate too much with him.”

They cross the road at last, and now the Bloody Angle is within clear view. Tour buses are lined up thirty yards behind the stone wall, and guides mix with their groups from the Copse of Trees to the Angle. Even now, the rush runs through William.

“Try to see it how we did,” he says. “Rows of rifles are looking down at us. They erupt in ribbons of flame. You hear bullets crack bones, feel men tumble around your feet, and your ears are senseless from the noise.”

They pause for a few long moments and gaze up at the incline approaching the wall.

“It gives me chills,” says Kathleen.

“Did you shoot back?” says Jason.

“I don’t think I ever fired. Some of the men did back at the fence and the road. But I didn’t. I had General Garnett on his horse in front of me.”

“Who’s that?” says Jason.

“A fine general and a brave man. General Jackson did him wrong. Unjustly accused him of cowardice at Kernstown. Here at Gettysburg, General Garnett was injured and could not march with us. His men told him to stay back but he refused and rode in on a black horse. Made him a target. Got us both killed.”

“You, too?” says Jason.

“Yes, sir,” says William. “We were about twenty yards further up the way. There was Yankee artillery behind the wall. I was right behind General Garnett. A blast from one of the artillery pieces got us both. Pieces of us were just kind of scattered.”

“Really? Here?” says Jason.

“Yes, sir. Never made it to the wall, and folks never found either of us.”

“Wow,” says Jason.

“That’s the story, anyway,” says William. “Some say that General Garnett was shot in the head. It’s hard to say what happened. One minute you’re driving hard to the Yankee line and the next the sound has all changed, there’s an explosion of pain like someone lit every part of you on fire, and then everything is quiet and peaceful and you’re just watching and no one can hear you or see you or touch you and you can see what is left of yourself nearby.”

Kathleen and Jason just look at him until Kathleen says finally, “I don’t know. I think y’all take the staying in character thing a little far.”

“How come no one ever found you?” says Jason.

William shrugs. “My brother Edmund tried. But it rained the next day. My body was a mess, and then the day after that, he had to leave with the rest of the army on the retreat. Some say I wound up in a mass grave. Some say I got shipped to Hollywood Cemetery with other unidentified remains. It’s hard to know.”

“You don’t even know where your own body is?” says Jason.

“Hush, honey,” says Kathleen. “He’s just acting. This was 160 years ago. A real spirit knows where his body is. He has to for the resurrection.”

“Is that true?” says Jason.

“You’d best listen to your Ma,” says William.

Just then, William sees movement coming toward them from the direction of the Angle. He peers around Kathleen and recognizes the black man in burlap pants approaching them. The man moves with a limp, unable to put much weight on his right leg. William can see a bulge under the skin of the thigh, knows that the femur is broken.

“James Godman,” says William.

Kathleen turns around. “Oh my, I didn’t see you coming.”

“Beggin yo pardon, ma’am,” says James lowering his eyes and looking at William. “Lieutenant Cocke, suh, you remember my name.”

“Yes, sir,” says William. “James Godman, teamster of the 26th North Carolina.”

“Yes, suh. Thank you, suh. You can see, suh, my leg is broke. Ima head up to the Yank hospital. Won’t be able to keep up with the men goin south. Can’t drive a team like this.”

“No, sir, you can’t,” says William.

James looks at him with pleading in his eyes. “Will you get word to my people, suh? If it ain’t too much trouble to ya? They’s all back home in North Carolina, suh. Can you remember my name? Can you get word to my people?”

“I can do that,” says William.

“They gonna take this leg, and when they do, I’s not be knowin whether I’s gonna make it.”

“I will remember your name, James,” says William.

“Thank you, suh. Much obliged.”

James pivots slowly and shuffles away toward the town.

“Who is that?” says Kathleen.

William motions for them to finish the walk toward the Angle. “James Godman. Teamster for the 26th North Carolina. A shell broke his leg. The Yankee doctors took his leg, and he died a month later. He’s buried with a bunch of us now in the Hollywood Cemetery.”

“What’s a teamster?” says Jason.

“Drives a wagon,” says William. “Wagons were targets for the artillery. They had men, ammunition, stuff like that in them. James wasn’t a soldier. He was a slave. But he died like a soldier, and now he’s buried among the gray.”

“And I guess it’s always July 3, 1863, for him too,” says Kathleen.

William looks down at the grass, sees his beat up shoes moving through it. “No one came for James, no one got word to his family, and no one got his name right in his burial. He’s been written down as Chadman, Chodman, Godman, Codman. I’m not sure he knows his own name.”

“That’s really sad,” says Kathleen.

“He’s probably better off than the folk he came from back home,” says William.

“What do you mean?” says Kathleen.

“Their names aren’t misspelled. They don’t exist. He couldn’t tell you who his grandparents were, might not know his own Pa and Ma, probably didn’t know his brothers, his aunts and uncles, his cousins. They have no names. They’re in unmarked graves. He won’t leave the field because he’s afraid of forgetting, afraid of being forgotten, afraid of having no name.”

They finally come to the base of the stone wall. Jason aims with his toy gun, makes a firing sound, then leaps on the stones.

“Jason!” Kathleen says.

He hops down to the other side.

“Don’t you mess up those stones.”

“Aw, Mom. They’re rocks. They’re fine.”

“He’s all right, ma’am,” says William. “They’ve seen worse.”

Kathleen turns to him. She squints and says, “Thanks so much for doing this.” She begins to dig into a fanny pack she has around her waist. “Let me give you a tip.”

William waves her off. “No, ma’am. Money doesn’t do me any good.”

“All that gear is expensive,” she says. “You really don’t have to stay in character for this part.”

“I’m not in character,” he says. He looks across the wall to the marker and the cannons behind where Alonzo Cushing had manned his gun while taking wounds to his hand, his gut, and finally his mouth. He can almost see the young man there holding his intestines in while working the gun. “Really, ma’am, it was my pleasure.”

“Wow,” she says. “That’s amazing.” She turns to Jason. “Come on, Jason. Want to hike over to the national cemetery? It’s where President Lincoln gave the Gettysburg Address.”

“What’s that?” he says, spinning around from aiming his gun at various visitors.

“I’ll tell you on the way there,” Kathleen says.

“Okay,” says Jason.

As Kathleen steps onto the wall and over it, Jason comes back down close to it. He looks at William.

“What about you, Lieutenant William?”

“What about me?” William says.

“Why are you still here? You ever gonna move on or is it always July 3, 1863, for you too?”

William shakes his head. “I’m aware of the passage of time.”

“But you’re still here,” says Jason. “Why?”

William stares at the boy, looks into his pale blue eyes, the question sinking deep into him, the memories of decades flooding over him, the still-fresh last image he had before that explosion of fire in his body. He takes a deep breath.

“Well, son, I guess I’m not sure. But I suppose we don’t progress if we can’t face the truth of why we are where we are.”

Jason shrugs his shoulders. “That’s silly.”

“I suppose it is,” says William.

“What are you scared of?” says Jason.

Kathleen takes his hand. “I don’t think that’s appropriate, Jason. Let’s let the man be. We’ve taken way too much of his time, and he probably has other people to see.” She turns back to William once more. “Thank you again. So much. Really. He will remember this his whole life.”

With that, they turn from William.

He stands at the stone wall, as they head up the grassy embankment. A tour bus pulls away. Another pulls up to its space. People mill around the Copse of Trees reading the signs. A guide stands at the marker where Lewis Armistead fell, and he talks to a group while pointing toward the wall. William turns around. Coming across the mown path are more groups of people, old and young, black and white, Latino and Asian, wearing funny hats and bald heads and ponytails and crocs and hiking boots.

A light wind blows across the field, a Chevy truck cruises along the Emmitsburg Road. He can see all of them, but none can see him. He looks again toward the Yankee position—Kathleen and Jason are well along the road and heading toward the cemetery.

“No one is coming for us,” William says. “That’s the thing, I suppose, boy. No one is coming for us.”

***