Stan's body had been like a bird caught in a jet engine. The post mortem only added to the mess. The sewing-up took a day. He was buried four days after the fateful accident. The memorial service had been tough on everyone. His sister had fainted for the third time since she had heard about it.

"Glen's recuperating in the hospital. He will be there for some time," said an apologetic Glen's father.

"I'm so sorry." Stan's mom couldn't bear Glen's father weeping. She comforted him. Glen's mother had been by her son's side.

Glen was still hurting badly. The bandages that bound him held him together. But it was something else that made him evade Stan's funeral. He was afraid he would lose his sanity; afraid he would turn into a zombie, start living in the graveyard, and talk to concrete graves. He could hear the midnight crickets singing right then in his room.

For the time he was in the hospital, he would fall into deep slumber, then wake up in cold sweat. The view out of the window was different every time he opened his eyes. The drugs affected his judgment of time. Not that it mattered. The shock had rattled his foundations.