Thus a new pattern of days began to develop, for Granny Albright did not die. She lay still on the bed, her head hardly denting the pillow; sometimes she opened her eyes and looked around, and sometimes she took a little milk or soup. They stopped expecting her to die the next minute, but only in the next day or two. Those who had driven hundreds of miles for the burial would not go home, for she might die any time; but they might as well unpack their suitcases, for she might linger on.

So the pattern was established. When Linda Kay had put up her breakfast dishes and mopped her linoleum rugs, she would go to the Big House. There was not anything she could do there, but that was where everyone was, or would be. Bobby Joe and the boys would come by, say ``How's Granny?'' and sit on the porch a while. The older men would be there at noon, and maybe rest for a time before they took their guns off to the creek or drove down the road towards town.

The women and children stayed at the Albrights'. The women, keeping their voices low as they worked around the house or sat in the living room, sounded like chickens shut up in a coop for the night. The children had to play away from the house (in the barn loft or the pasture behind the barn), to maintain a proper quietness.

Off and on, all day, someone would be wiping at the powdery gray dust that settled over everything. The evaporative cooler had been moved to Granny's room, and her door was kept shut; so that the rest of the house stayed open, though there was a question as to whether it was hotter or cooler that way.