The morning sun was still laced with night chill when Josh, muscles and joints aching, lumbered back to the road. His face was red and grizzled and his damp clothes sent chills through his body as he moved. But Josh was humming. The nickel was secure in his pocket and he was twirling the key on its shoelace in slow circles. The movement pleased him, the roundness of it. From the bridge, he looked down at the stream, sparkling in the morning sunlight. It occurred to him that he should retrieve a few empty beer cans and fill them with water for the remainder of the trip. But looking down the road, he could make out the scattered buildings of town about two miles away. He bellowed happily, almost dancing on the pavement and, twirling the key, he was soon passing the first small bungalows, their graveled driveways spilling onto the road where metal mailboxes leaned at odd angles.

The road turned just ahead of him, and Ned's store, with its two big windows and white, balustrade porch, sat on the outside of the turn. Josh ran awkwardly to the gravel parking lot that fronted the big white building. He bounded up the three sagging steps and opened the screen door.

Behind a long, wooden counter laden with jars and display cases, he saw a weasel-faced man with a balding head stocking wall shelves with tin cans. The man turned his head inquiringly towards Josh as he approached the counter. Josh asked for Ned.

"What d'you want with Ned?" the man asked, looking up at Josh suspiciously.

"I — uh —" Josh had no idea how to explain. The box, the coin, the stream, the road all crowded his mind at once. He thrust out his fist. The weasel-faced man jerked back. Josh opened his sun-reddened hand slowly and the nickel gleamed coolly on his palm. "From the box —" he said with a deep, dull voice. "— the men from the charity."

The man behind the counter relaxed slightly, but still looked uneasy. Leaning forward to look at the coin, he asked: "Charity? What chari —" He leaned farther, looking at Josh thoughtfully. "Aren't you Calvin Wright's boy? The one livin' by himself out to the old junction?"

Josh nodded, feeling easier at the mention of his father's name.

"Well, I'll be," said the man, pulling at his chin with a thumb and forefinger. "You look like hell. You all right?"

Josh nodded again and said that he was thirsty. The weasel-faced man smiled and took a bottle of orange pop from the cooler at the end of the counter. With a single movement, he opened it and handed it to Josh. "On the house," he said, and watched silently as Josh downed the pop with a long, noisy guzzle. Josh handed the empty bottle back, burped, and thanked him.

"I guess you were thirsty," said the man, staring at the bottle. "Now, what 's this 'bout a charity?"

"The box to the junction. I brung a donation. Is Ned here?"

The man puckered his lips and parted them with a muted pop. "No. I'm afraid not. Ned passed away last week. Heart attack, while he was unpackin ' a box of pickles, an' was dead the next day. I'm his nephew, Ernie."

Josh's mouth opened slowly as he realized why Ned had not been out to see him.

"An' if you mean the old donation box to the junction," Ernie went on, "well, that charity ain't around no more, not since the mill closed down. Hell, that money was for laid-up workers from the mill. Ain't no laid-up mill workers without no mill. Why don't you just pocket that nickel."

Josh looked dumbly at the coin, now a strange enigmatic thing without purpose, lying in his hand.