"Oh," the boy said. He nodded. He lay down on a blanket near the fire. He pulled a second blanket over himself. He looked at the stars through the canopy.
"Grandpa," he said.
"I am not your grandpa," the old man said.
"So what, grandpa," the boy said. "What do you do? Do you have a family?"
The old man was quiet.
He puffed his pipe. The smoke rose. It curled.
"No, my child," he said. "I don't."
"Why not?" the boy asked.
"Because some men are meant to be alone," the old man said. "Some men carry things. Heavy things. Too heavy for a family."
The boy thought about this.
"Uncle carries heavy things too," the boy said. "But he has a family."
The old man looked across the fire. Raven was gone. The log was empty. The shadows had swallowed him.
"That," the old man said, "is a different kind of man."
The boy's eyes closed.
He slept.
The pond was hidden in the forest.
