The bus left Iowa at dawn, carrying two small suitcases and a thermos of coffee. Ray sat by the window, watching the fields disappear behind them. Beside him, Helena pressed her head against the glass and smiled at nothing in particular.

They had not been to Chicago in ten years. Ten years since Michael had become a partner at the accounting firm. Ten years since Anna had accepted the teaching position in Des Moines. Ten years since Frank had last held a job that paid more than minimum wage.

Michael met them at the station. He kissed Helena on the cheek, shook Ray's hand, and said, "I have a meeting at nine. Frank will show you around." He did not invite them to his apartment in Lincoln Park. He did not ask if they wanted to stay. He gave them the address of a motel near the Loop and told them to call if they needed anything.

They called once. Michael did not answer.

Helena walks the streets of Chicago with Frank. She likes the city—the buildings, the trains, the energy. She asks Frank about his life, and he tells her the truth: he has no job, no future, no plan. Helena does not pity him. She loves him.

Ray spends his days sitting in the motel room, looking out the window at the L train passing overhead. He thinks about the factory where he worked for thirty years. He thinks about the men who are now dead. He does not think about his children. He thinks about Helena, who is sitting beside him, reading a magazine, smiling at something she cannot quite hear anymore.

On the bus back to Iowa, Helena feels ill. She presses a hand to her chest and closes her eyes. Frank calls for a paramedic at the next stop. The paramedic examines her and says, "It is her heart. She needs a hospital."

They stop in a small town in central Iowa for two days. Helena improves slightly. They continue the journey. On the third day, she dies in her sleep.

Ray does not cry. He sits beside her body for four hours, holding her hand, watching the light fade from the window. He tells the bus driver, "I would like to have her buried in Iowa." The driver looks at him strangely. Ray repeats himself. The driver nods.

Ray returns to his house in Iowa. He goes upstairs to Helena's room. The bed is made. The chair is empty. On the bed is a sweater she was knitting—a blue sweater, half finished. Ray picks it up. He looks at the needles, at the stitches, at the unfinished pattern. He puts it back on the bed. He goes downstairs. He makes coffee. He sits in his chair. He looks out the window at the fields. Michael and Anna come to the funeral. They do not know each other—they have not spoken in five years. They stand at the graveside, side by side, and say nothing. After the service, they get into separate cars and drive away in different directions. Ray watches them go. He does not wave. He turns and walks back to the house. He sits in Helena's chair. He picks up the sweater. He does not know how to knit. He puts it down. He sits in the silence. He does not think about meaning. He does not think about purpose. He does not think about anything at all. He simply sits. The sun sets. The fields go dark. Ray does not turn on the light.