The Handcart

Boyd's handcart stopped outside Frank's house.

It looked as though the cart hadn't been used in some time. Boyd wiped the dust off it and asked Ryan to lend a hand.

The job wasn't difficult. Boyd handed Ryan a pair of gloves, and after a short spell of work, the two men had loaded the remains onto the cart.

The cart was much heavier now. Ryan pushed gently from the side while Boyd pulled from the front.

The wheels rolled over the road. Plenty of townspeople watched, covering their mouths and murmuring about how pitiful it was.

But they kept their distance, unwilling to come closer. Ryan covered the remains with a piece of cloth. "Where are we burying them?"

"Keep going down this road. There's something like a cemetery." Boyd looked ahead, his voice subdued.

He blamed himself. "I should have made Frank board up the windows. What happened today shouldn't have happened."

"Boyd."

"What is it, Ryan?"

"It's this nightmarish place's fault. Outside this town, you can leave a window open at night and let the breeze blow in."

"You're trying to comfort me, Ryan."

"Stating a fact doesn't count as comforting you."

Boyd fell silent. He glanced back at Ryan.

He knew he could never say something so considerate himself.

A fierce look and a pair of fists made his point better than words ever could.

That was how Boyd had always lived. But for Ryan, that kind of thoughtfulness was probably second nature.

Boyd looked down at the road, lost in thought.

He had kept order in the town for a long time and met all kinds of people.

Introverts envied extroverts.

The frugal couldn't understand spendthrifts.

Single people couldn't fathom having enough girlfriends to fill a phone book.

What came naturally to someone else could