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big moo-cows."
    She was holding the doll up so it could see out
the left side of the car. Beck glanced that way.
    "Tell her … No, honey, those are buffalo."
    "Are those cows?"
    She was now looking out the right side.
    "No, those are horses. Says 'Eureka Thoroughbred Farm'." Beck pointed out the other side. "Now those are
cows."
    A small herd was grazing in a field. It wasn't
a real cattle ranch; those were out west. This little ranchette was just a tax
deduction for a Houston lawyer or a Dallas doctor.
    "And what's that?"
    Back to the right side.
    "Well, that's a one-hump camel. I'm not
sure what it's doing here."
    Meggie asked and Beck answered as they drove
past two ostriches, three wineries, and four turkey farms … the Hummingbird
Farm, the Lavender Farm, and the Wildseed Farm … Engel's Peaches, Turner's
Tractors, and Vogel's Peaches & Tractors … the steel-blue Lutheran
Church with its tall white steeple … and longhorn cattle. They passed bare
peach orchards and shuttered peach stands, vacant deer blinds waiting for hunting
season, and the same abandoned houses and roadside stores that Beck had seen
when he had last driven this highway twenty-four years before. They drove past
Upper Albert Road and Lower Albert Road, Gellermann and Goehmann Lanes, Old San Antonio Road and the road to Luckenbach. They crossed over Flat Creek, Tow Head
Creek, Rocky Creek, Three Mile Creek, South Grape Creek, Baron's Creek where it
turned south, and the Pedernales River where it turned north; all had run dry.
    "Plus three," he said.
    "Plus three what?" Meggie said.
    Beck pointed at the city limits sign: FREDERICKSBURG, TEXAS, POP. 8,911.
    "Plus three. Us."
    "Why's that white cross stuck in the
ground?"
    Under the sign was a short cross with a vase of flowers.
    "Someone must've … there must have been
a car accident right here."
    "Did someone die?"
    "Maybe."
    "They'll be back. Like Mommy."
    Beck sighed. How do you explain death to a
five-year-old?
    They drove past a new Wal-Mart on the left, Fort
Martin Scott with a teepee on the right, and horses grazing around a new sewage
treatment plant. Highway 290 became Main Street, and Beck slowed as they entered
town; he stopped at a red light fronting the old Nimitz Hotel, now the National
Museum of the Pacific War, but once a hotel, brewery, and frontier landmark
with its upper stories shaped like the bow of a Mississippi steamboat complete
with a hurricane deck, pilot house, and a crow's nest. The original German owner
had been a sailor, as had his grandson, Admiral Chester Nimitz, the commander
of the Pacific Fleet during World War Two. Back in the late 1800s, the
ten-room hotel had been a traveler's last chance for a cold beer, a hot bath, and
a clean bed until El Paso five hundred miles farther west. The Nimitz marked
the eastern boundary of downtown Fredericksburg.
    Main Street was blocked off west of the Nimitz.
American, Texas, and German flags flew from standards on every building on both
sides of the street. Stretched over the street was a banner that read
FREDERICKSBURG SALUTES OUR ARMED FORCES AND THEIR FAMILIES. And Beck remembered
what day it was.
    "Hey, guys, it's the Fourth of July. I
think we're in time for the parade."
    Beck pulled around the corner and parked a block
north of Main Street. Meggie jumped out, but Luke had to be coaxed.
    "Come on, son, this'll be fun."
    Luke sighed and climbed out. They walked back to Main Street and crossed over to the south side—the shady side in the summer. Spectators crowded
the sidewalks and stood on the second-story balconies that overlooked Main Street and sat on the tailgates of pickup trucks and SUVs that lined the street. Some wore
flags—hats, caps, shirts, and shorts; others waved flags. The sun was blazing
hot, the sky was clear blue, and the flags were flying: it was the Fourth of
July in Fredericksburg, Texas.
    They settled into a shady spot out front of what had been
the Fredericksburg Auto Parts;