"There are no children in this village, sir,"
Mrs. Tilton said, and poured his cup.
The coffee smelled of iodine. He looked up
at lilacs through the window, just a blur.
He'd heard the voice again beneath his room—
a child that talked to no one in the lane.
He searched but found it empty. Half-insane,
he wandered to the kitchen's antique gloom:
Brass pots. Flagstones. Hand pump at the sink.
And there, behind a cluster of radish leaves,
a telegram—the kind no man believes
until he reads. He felt his spirit shrink:
RECOAT IF VOICES PERSIST TO THIRD MORNING
PROCEED EUTHANASIA COFFEE FORMULA TWO
ADVISE OFFICE OF CHIEF PSYCH WMA—
He set it back. Outside, his jailer stood,
picking peas. He watched the rocket's arc
scratch white across the sky before the dark.
She came inside. He said he understood.
"I'd rather not go out," he told her then.
"I'd like to try shelling peas, if that's alright."
She smiled. He sat. His hands trembled, contrite.
He split a pod. Nine peas. He'd count to ten.
He chewed one, tasting sweetness on his tongue.
"Thank you, Mrs. Tilton." "Not at all."
And so he died—not angry, not appalled—
shelling peas, as if he were still young.