In the morning his waterlogged shoes have become too heavy to lift anymore. He collapses into a ditch along the roadside, staring up at a clear blue sky. He can't muster the strength even to reach into his jacket for the bread. He's going to die here in this ditch. What does it matter? He's lost everything that ever mattered to him: his mother, friends, and home. They're lost to him forever.
He hears footsteps on the road. They've found him at last. Not much longer before they seize him and finish him off. Good, he thinks. At least then it will be over. All of it will be over at last. No more wondering who and what he is or what will become of him. Now he'll have peace.
"Oh my God!" a woman says. "You poor boy. However did you get in there?"
The face of a woman with blue eyes and dark hair like his mother fills his vision. At first he thinks Mother has somehow found him, but then he sees this woman wears the rough clothes of a farm matron. She sets a basket of eggs next to him and sits him up. "Can you hear me?" she says. "Are you hurt?"
He shakes his head. "Where are your kinfolk?" she asks.
"I don't have any," he says. "They're dead."
"You're on your own then?" He nods. "You poor thing. You're welcome to come with me. My husband and I have plenty of room. We could use another set of hands around the house."
"I couldn't do that."
"Nonsense. You can't stay here in this ditch. Now come along and pick up that basket. Try not to drop any of those eggs. They're for Mrs. McCracken down the road."
He empties out his shoes and then gets up. With the basket clutched in his hands, he follows behind the woman. "Come along now, lad. Keep up with me or you'll be left behind," she says. He quickens his pace to fall in beside her. "You look a fright. As soon as I get home we'll have to give you a bath and do something with that hair of yours. You look like a girl."
He fingers the greasy ringlets hanging down past his shoulders. He remembers Mother running the comb through his hair, telling him how beautiful it looked. Then he remembers her seizing him by the same hair, dragging him down to the cellar. "Here you'll stay," she said.
"Come now, pay attention. I asked you a question."
"Yes ma'am?"
"What's your name?"
"Wendell."
"Don't you have a proper surname?"
He can't give her his real last name or she might betray him to Mother. He tries to think of another one, looking about for inspiration. "Basket," he says, his eyes on the egg basket. "It's Wendell Basket."