he tried to say, but his lips wouldn’t move.

“Dad?” called Tom, softly from the cellar. “Come on down.” Another pause. “I want you to see the harvest.”

Fortnum felt the knob slip in his sweaty hand. The knob rattled. He gasped.

“Dad?” called Tom softly.

Fortnum opened the door. The cellar was completely black below. He stretched his hand in toward the light switch. As if sensing this from somewhere, Tom said, “Don’t. Light’s bad for the mushrooms.”

He took his hand off the switch. He swallowed. He looked back at the stair leading up to his wife. I suppose, he thought, I should go say goodbye to Cynthia. But why should I think that! Why, in God’s name, should I think that at all? No reason, is there? None.

“Tom?” he said, affecting a jaunty air. “Ready or not, here I come!”

And stepping down in darkness, he shut the door.

1962

The End