It was Karin's little matte-black 9 mm automatic. He wrapped the shirt around it and put it back.

He straightened out one of the last American Spirits and took it down the hall to the outside door before lighting it.

The stars looked very cold and very small and very far away.

Tom wondered how he would ever get to sleep with Arabella gone, lost, closed up in a morgue drawer somewhere.

"Tom? Do you mind if I call you Tom?"

It was a girl in white, a black girl, not Tanya. She was pushing Cliff through the hall in his wheelchair. "You can call me Butterfly. You know, you can't smoke here."

"Sorry," said Tom. He threw away the cigarette and followed them to his room.

Tanya's replacement had a sweet, wide smile and fluttering hands that almost matched Cliff's. "You can call me Butterfly," she said.

"I know," said Tom.

She was combing Cliff's hair over his bald spot, tenderly. Tom helped put the breakfast dishes away and checked the office again. Still closed.

He was watching a morning talk show when Lucius came in and pulled the remote from the drawer. "The Resistance is no longer a myth," he said, switching to CNN.

The TV showed two young people in chains, a man and a woman. They were both smiling and holding up their fists as they were led to a waiting Homeland Security van.

"This story has broken the silence," said Lucius. "Now the whole country knows there is a Resistance and it is active. The government has stopped trying to hide it. They are of course trying to paint us as murderers and criminals, but the people will know the difference. Most of them, anyway."

"How about Cliff?" Tom asked.

Lucius shook his head. "Not so good. I examined him last night. There's no change, and there's not likely to be change. We can take care of him, of course. That's why this place is here."

"He doesn't want to be here," Tom said. "Neither do I. We need to be with our families."

"I understand how you feel," said Lucius. "But you can't really speak for Cliff, can you? It would be suicide for you or him to leave here, and we can't allow that. Plus, it would endanger the others. Wait until you have thought it over and things have cooled down a little."

"What would your wife think?" It was Dawn, in the doorway. "I'm sure she woudn't want you to throw away your life after all the efforts that have been taken to save it. Think of the thousands who are risking their own careers to put up a resistance to the involuntary suicide and judicial murder that is the Brigades and the kevorkian laws."

"This has all been a mistake," Tom said again. "We appreciate what you are doing, but …"

"Not a mistake," said Lucius. "An inevitability. Sooner or later they would have to realize we existed. Now the fight has been joined. It's more important than ever that we keep you hidden and help you survive this assault."

"Let me call my daughter, at least."

Lucius put a hand on Tom's shoulder. "I understand, and we're on it. We have to patch in the call from the Netherlands, so they can't trace it. We've gone from symbolic resistance to real Resistance. We need your total cooperation."

"Doing what?"

"Laying low. Being cool. Chilling, I believe was once the word."

After a particularly big win, with much leaping about, Tom went back to his room to get an American Spirit out of the paper bag. There were three left, all crooked. The black gun was still safe, wrapped in the shirt in the bottom of the bag.

He unwrapped it and put on the shirt. The blood on the sleeve cracked off and fell to floor as dark powder.

He went back down the hall to the open door and lit the cigarette. The forbidden taste, the betrayal, was sweet—but where was the betrayed? Arabella, I didn't mean to leave you there alone. I didn't mean for any of this to happen.

The long bare lawn, with a few patches of grass, ended abruptly at a row of shaggy pines; dark, thoughtless, still-living trees.

Tom tried to remember Arabella's face, her voice, but they both were dim. Like seeing through fog.

"Remember, Tom, you can't smoke here."

It was Butterfly, Tanya's replacement. Darker skin, brighter eyes, all in white like—

"Oh, yeah, I forgot," said Tom, flipping the cigarette out onto the lawn, hitting a bare spot. "What's that noise out there?"

"What noise? Out where?"

"Beyond the trees. I thought it was the wind, but there's no wind."

"A highway, I think," Butterfly said. "I don't know which one, of course. We come here blindfolded, for security. That way if we're arrested, like the ones this morning, we can't betray anything because we don't know anything."

"I thought it was the wind," Tom said. A highway was better.

"I thought you had gone," Tom said.

"We're all stuck here until the alert is lifted," she said. "We can't all get arrested, can we?"

She made it sound like a privilege. As soon as she had wiped her spoon and left, Tom unwrapped his sandwich and ate it. Tuna fish.

"This is fucked," he said. "It's an old folks home. Assisted living. We go from assisted dying to assisted living. Fuck!"

"Habeus corpus," said Cliff.

"It's a bunch of kids taking care of old people. But I'm talking to Gwyneth this afternoon. I'm going to figure out a way to get us out of here."

"Habeus corpus," said Cliff.

"I don't know where. Just somewhere. Anywhere."

Tom lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. He wanted to see the island again, but he couldn't find it, even in his imagination. Sleep wouldn't come; it was neither morning nor afternoon. He opened his eyes and watched the birds, caught in the wallpaper's beige universe, neither landing nor taking off.

Finally he got up and went down the hall to the TV room. The old folks were dozing, tomato soup dribbling down their chins. On the TV a judge was listening to the excuses of a black man whose dog had ripped down the wash from a neighbor's car. "He didn't know it was wash, Your Honor. Who hangs out wash anymore?"

The judge seemed unsympathetic. Just as she was about to announce her verdict, Tom felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped, startled; he had been imagining he was the defendant.

It was Lucius, looking pleased. "Tom, your call. As promised."

Tom followed him to the office down the hall. "Make the best of it," Lucius said. "It took a lot of doing. We have people in Europe, too. We learned a lot from you and Cliff."

"From me and Cliff?"

"From your generation. From people with a personal history of resistance. From all those who would not go gently into that good night. There's the phone. Remember, it's international." He turned and left the room.

Tom was both eager and reluctant to pick up the phone. "Gwyn?"

"Dad!"

"It's me. Are you all right, honey?"

"Yes, they can't prove anything. Oh, it's so good to hear your voice."

"What do you mean, they can't prove anything? Have you been arrested?"

"Only detained for an hour or so yesterday. They're so stupid."

"What about your mother?"

"She's at Wainwright's."

Tom felt a moment's surge of hope. Then he realized what she meant. "Funeral home?"

"He won't release her body. They say it's evidence."

Her body. It used to mean something else.

"I'll take care of it, Dad. I promise. It's what mother would have wanted."

"What? That?"

"For you to be okay. Don't do something foolish like I know you're thinking about."

"Like what?"

"Everyone is looking for you. You and Cliff are heroes. You have to lay low."

"Heroes, hell. Gwyneth, this is no good. This is an old folks home."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, but I'd rather have joined the fucking Brigade. Cliff is here, too. He's had some kind of stroke."

"Daddy, talk sense. It's not fair to Mom. It's not fair to me!"

"You're breaking up," Tom said. "I love you."

"I don't want to be an orphan!"

"I love you," said Tom, hanging up.

"She's right, you know," said Lucius. He was standing in the doorway.

"What the hell do you know! You were listening to my phone call?"

"Of course not." Lucius sat in the chair across from Tom and placed his two thick hands between his knees. "But I know what she was saying. I know this place looks bad. We have people here who were injured by the kevorkian chemicals. But you don't belong here. At the other centers, in California and back East, you will find people you will want to be with. Maybe even work with. You may even want to work with us. Now you have a choice. That's the whole point."

"What about Cliff?"

"He belongs here. He'll have to make his own choices. You can't make his choices for him."

And you can? "What about my wife? They won't release her to my daughter."

"And they sure as hell won't release her to you. Tom, you're a wanted man. You're part of the Resistance, whether you like it or not."

"Ara wasn't supposed to die."

"Tom, you have to give her up. She was ready to give you up. Can't you do the same for her?"

"I don't want to talk about it," said Tom, getting up.

"I understand," said Lucius. "You've been through a lot. Get some rest and think about it and we'll talk tomorrow."

"Arrested in Eugene and Northern Washington," said the announcer. The TV showed four young people in chains, being loaded into a red-white-and-blue ashcroft van. They were smiling and holding up their fists.

"More arrests," said Dawn. She was standing in the doorway again; she seemed to like doorways.

"How many of you are there?" Tom asked.

"I don't actually know," Dawn said. "And of course, I wouldn't say if I did. The Resistance is nationwide. Some are medical students, some are religious activists, some are volunteers like Tanya and Butterfly. We come from every sector of society, just like the opposition to the death penalty, or the right-to-life movement in your day."

"But those were two entirely different sets of people and politics," Tom said.

"Things change. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. We unite all those who are dedicated to fighting a society that discards old people when their usefulness is done. We fight for the dignity of old age and the rejection of suicide as a social policy. Surely you, with your history of political activism, can understand that."

"Not exactly. I supported the idea of voluntary termination at first," said Tom. "It seemed like a socially desirable thing, especially since the life span is so long in the developed world."

"Isn't that a little racist," said Dawn, with a tight smile. "Isn't suicide itself a little arrogant, with a hint of noblesse oblige? It's not just about you anyway. The Resistance is more than just a haven for those who are escaping the kevorkian laws. It's a mechanism for those who want to put their principles into action, like the Underground Railroad."

"But the Underground Railroad wasn't set up for the benefit of those who ran it," Tom protested.

Or was it? He looked up, and she was gone.

"Where are you taking him?" asked Butterfly.

"For a walk," said Tom. "Is that allowed?"

"Of course, but don't go outside. We don't know who might be watching through the fence."

"There's a fence?"

"It's not to keep people in," said Tanya, who was helping with the evening feeding. "It's to keep people out. Security."

Tom rolled Cliff down the empty hall. He stopped by their room and got the next-to-last American Spirit out of the bag. Then he smoked it, half in and half out of the open back door, while Cliff looked on in his now customary silence.

"It's all backward," said Tom. "More than backward. Twisted almost totally around."

"Habeus corpus," said Cliff.

"Young people dedicating their lives to keeping old people alive. Risking their lives, or at least their freedom, so … what? So we can watch talk shows and eat tuna? Most of us don't even know what we are watching on TV. Or maybe we do. That's worse."

"Habeus corpus," said Cliff.

"They see this as their big shot. By repressing them, the government is finally taking them seriously. And in a weird way, they dig it! I can see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices. Remember all the people in the movement who didn't care about winning, who just wanted to fight the good fight?"

"Habeus corpus."

"You can't win, and therefore you never have to take responsibility for actually changing anything. You just get to feel good about making the fucking effort. Moralism in arms. They're not fighting the Brigades; they're fighting Death itself. Moralism's ideal strategy: pick a fight you know beforehand you can't possibly win. But what am I saying—it's not just them. All our lives, we are fighting Death. That's what life is, I guess: a slow holding action against entropy."

"Habeus corpus," said Cliff.

"Tom, you know you can't smoke here." It was Butterfly. "Think of the others."

"They can't smell it," Tom said. "They don't know what the hell's going on anyway. Tell me, Butterfly, why do you do this?"

"This?"

"All this. Taking care of all these old people. Of us."

"Old age deserves dignity," Butterfly said.

"No, it doesn't," Tom said, throwing out his cigarette and closing the door. "Take it from one who knows."

It was backward. Worse than backward. But what could he do? He was a prisoner here, and Dawn was right: it was the fault of the government. The whole business was fucked.

He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He had a gun, in the bag. He could end it for himself and Cliff. But what would that do to the kids here, who had saved them; or who thought they had saved them? It would be worse than betrayal.

He was trapped. He was in a drawer like Arabella.

Only worse: alive. With no one to talk to, except Cliff, who had forgotten how to talk back.

It was over, but it still went on. It was just as his grandfather had said, back in Indiana: "The problem is, life goes on after it's over."

He closed his eyes, hoping the world would go away again, like before. But it didn't. Tom was no longer tired, no longer dizzy. He tried counting sheep, and it was going okay, until suddenly someone pulled at his sleeve.

"There you are. I found you."

He opened his eyes. He was in the bed alone. But it was Arabella's voice. He started to cry, for the first time in years, and closed his eyes.

"I found you," she said again.

Tom stood in the doorway smoking the last American Spirit, all the way down, until it would have burned his fingers if it were not for the filter. He tossed it away and went back inside and put on his clothes, stiff shirt and all. There was the gun, in the bottom of the bag. The safety was off. Had it been off all along?

He switched it on and stuck the gun into his belt.

He felt like an outlaw. An American Spirit Outlaw. An old fucking outlaw.

"Habeus corpus," said Cliff.

"You awake? We need to talk," said Tom. He sat down on the bed and took Cliff's hand. "I have to get out of here," he said. "I have to deal with Gwyneth and with Arabella, and Pam, too. Everything is fucked. They don't need me here. You don't need me here."

"Habeus corpus," said Cliff.

"Gwyneth will help me. I will come for you when all this is over. I'll try. I'll do what I can. But first I need to get far enough away so if I get caught they can't trace me back to these kids."

"Habeus corpus," said Cliff.

He knows I'm lying, Tom thought. Then he saw that Cliff was looking at the gun in his belt.

"It's the one I took from Karin," he said. "With an I. Don't worry, I'm not going to use it. If I can get to the highway, I can trade it for a ride to Portland."

"Habeus corpus."

"Seattle, then. Hell, Eugene. I know we're in Oregon, somewhere on the western side of the Cascades; I can tell by the clouds." He put his hand on the doorknob. "So long, buddy. So long again."

Cliff raised his arm and held it, almost steady. A salute? A plea? "Habeus corpus," he said.

Tom took his hand off the door. He couldn't go through. Not alone, anyway. "Okay, okay," he said.

Just inside the trees, there was a steep bank. At the bottom was a chainlink fence, taller than a man, with three strands of barbed wire at the top. Beyond the fence there was a dirt road. Tom could barely make it all out in the moonlight.

He heard a bell ringing behind him.

"Habeus corpus," said Cliff.

"The alarm," said Tom. "I thought they were bluffing."

"Tom? I know you're there!" Lucius was speaking through a bullhorn. "I'm on your side. I want to bring you back safely, in a way that doesn't endanger you or us. Is Cliff with you?"

Tom didn't answer. That meant they couldn't see him, even in the moonlight. He heard a door open and shut; he heard muffled voices.

"We know he's with you. That's okay. Just don't go any farther. There's a fence. It's electric."

You're bluffing, Tom thought.

"It's not to keep you in. It's to keep them out. Come back before you bring the Homies down on us all."

Tom studied the fence. There was no way he was going to get through it with a wheelchair, even if it wasn't electric, which it probably wasn't. Plus, the bank was too steep here; there was no way down.

"Tom, it's me, Lucius. I'm coming to bring you back."

Tom pointed the gun straight up, toward the sky, and pulled the trigger. He had forgotten the safety was on. He clicked it off and pulled the trigger again.

BLAM!

"Whoa! What was that?"

He fired again: BLAM!

"Damn, Tom, I hope you're not shooting at me," Lucius shouted through the bullhorn. "Because I'm not going to shoot back, if that's what you want."

Tom decided it was best not to answer.

"Habeus corpus," Cliff whispered. Tom was surprised. Had he been able to whisper before, or was this a new power? Cliff was leaning forward in his wheel chair, his right hand plucking at the rim of the right wheel. Suddenly Tom realized what was happening.

Too late.

Before he could grab the chair, Cliff had rolled it over the edge of the bank. It pitched forward, spilling him out and rolling down on top of him. Cliff and the chair hit the fence at the same time.

There was a crackling sound, and a wad of dry grass burst into flame.

"Shit! It is electric!" Tom slid down the bank, holding the gun in one hand and slowing himself with the other.

The grass was still burning, but the fence was no longer crackling.

Cliff was half in and half out of the chair, wedged between the bottom of the bank and the fence. The wire was sparking where it crossed the spokes of the wheel. Cliff's arm was rising and falling rapidly.

Tom grabbed Cliff's hand, and it shocked him.

"Damn!" He tried it again; this time it was barely a tingle. He grabbed Cliff's wrist and pulled him out of the chair. But there was nowhere to go. They were both wedged in the tiny space between the steep bottom of the bank and the fence.

"Habeus corpus," said Cliff.

"I know," said Tom. "It wasn't supposed to be like this, old buddy. We did our best, didn't we?

"Habeus corpus."

Tom could hear doors slamming in the distance. Floodlights came on, lighting the tops of the trees, high above.

"Tom, don't do this! You're giving us no choice."

No choice? Tell me about it.

He could see silhouettes at the top of the bank. They were looking down. A light shone in his face.

He raised the gun and fired again.

BLAM!

The light went out.

"Go ahead, you old fool," said Lucius. "I can wait till morning. You're trapped there. We tried to work with you, but you're determined to put us all in danger. Well, we can wait you out."

Tom thought it best not to answer. At least the light was out. He tried to move the chair, but it was wedged against the fence. His hands tingled again when he touched it. It wasn't a shock, really; more of a warning.

Cliff was folded up in a fetal position on the ground. His left leg was moving in unison with his arm, back and forth.

Shit. Tom turned over and lay on his back and looked up.

The clouds swept across the moon like cotton swabs, big and incredibly beautiful, faster and faster—eastward, toward the still faraway dawn. They disappeared behind the trees.

"Habeus corpus," said Cliff.

"I know."

Tom put the gun against the side of Cliff's head. It wasn't supposed to be like this, but no one had to look. He could keep his eyes closed.

"So long again, old buddy."

BLAM!

"Tom! If you're firing at me, you're wasting your shots. I won't fire back."

Tom put the gun against his own temple. As he searched for the familiar little indentation, he saw the island again, finally. There was one tree on the center, just like in the cartoons. The hang glider was descending, too fast. There was Arabella, all in silhouette, all in black, but sweetly familiar.

"I found you."

Then there was nothing at all.

This grave partakes the fleshly birth, which cover lightly, gentle earth.

—Ben Jonson