He points to a smaller group of graves, some of which have relatively fresh flowers on them but none of which are freshly dug, around an empty fountain and a small stone statue of an angel.
—Yes. Those are ours. All these others are from over the mountain. They come in wagons, sometimes five or six at a time. Can we go inside?
Joe takes his hat off, bows his head in the rain to the rapidly muddying unmarked graves.
To himself: —For all my friends out on the burial ground.