For a long while Joan has managed to balance on the balls of her bare feet, knees bent, skirt skimming the dirt. But now her thighs are giving out, so she puts a hand down and eases onto the sand. Something jabs at her hip bone. She reaches underneath her leg and fishes out a small plastic spear—no longer than a finger—and it is no surprise, because she is always finding tiny weapons in unexpected places. "Did you lose a spear?" she asks. "Or is this one a scepter?" Lincoln does not answer her, although he takes the piece of plastic from her open hand. He apparently has been waiting for her lap to become available—he backs up, settling himself comfortably on her thighs, not a speck of sand on him. He has a fastidiousness about him; he never did like painting. "Do you want a nose, Mommy?" he asks. "I have a nose," she says. "Do you want an extra one?'" "Who wouldn't?" His dark curls need to be cut again, and he swipes them off his forehead. The leaves float down around them. The wooden roof, propped up on rough, round timber, shades them completely, but beyond it, the gray gravel is patterned with sunlight and shadows, shifting as the wind blows through the trees. "Where are you getting these extra noses?" she asks. "The nose store.'"