“And the dreams so rich in color. How else would death call you? Waking in the cold dawn it all turned to ash instantly. Like certain ancient frescoes entombed for centuries suddenly exposed to the day.” p 21
He sits up violently, breathing hard. Without thinking about it he reaches for the boy. He pleads with someone he can’t see.
“Where did you go, damnit? Where am I supposed to go?”
He takes a minute to survey his surroundings and clear his head. His commotion has woken the boy, who is confused,
“Papa? Did you have a bad dream?”
“It was only a dream”
“Where are we going?”
“We have to go south, where it will get warm. Wouldn’t you like to be warm for a change?”
“Sure Papa, when will we get there?
“I don’t know yet. (beat) I don’t know.”
He retucks the boy under the tarp, as if to encourage him to go back to sleep. As the boy drifts off, he stands up and walks to where he’s hidden the cart. He is preoccupied by his son’s questions, and even more preoccupied by the fact that he hasn’t any answers for him. He has no one to talk to, no one to share in the horrifying truth:he has no idea where they’re going.