“Mrs. Beall? Mrs. Beall?”
A man stood at the back door with a flashlight.
“Mr. Faye. What is it?”
“An earthquake. You probably felt it.”
“My Lord! That’s what that was!” The old woman wrapped her arm more tightly around the little boy beside her. “I’m sorry, Kirk. I shouldn’t have swatted you like that.”
The little boy was too sleepy to care. He stood with his thumb in his mouth looking up at Mr. Faye.
“Hush now. Mr. Faye is talking to me.”
“We know your kids are up at The Park. Do you know where?”
“Not rightly, no.”
“Do you think they were — are — camping at Hebgen Lake?”
“No, not usually. They like Fishing Bridge.”
The old woman now clung to the little boy as if he were a life preserver in a tossing sea.
“What happened, Mr. Faye?”
“The earthquake was centered in Yellowstone. They don’t yet know much about it, only where it hit.”
“My Lord,” she said.
“Do you want me to stay here with you, Mrs. Beall? Until you hear from the kids?”
The old woman held the little boy even closer.
“I’ll be fine, Mr. Faye. Thank you kindly for coming to tell me.”
“Call me when you hear from them?”
“I will, sir, I will.”
“All right, Mrs. Beall.”
Mr. Faye walked back out into the August night.