Garrick Thornby, who farmed the thin acres past the second creek on the outer strip, was found dead at his own gate on the morning of the thirty-first. He was not an old man, and he was rarely a sick one. We have no account of how he came to be lying in his own lane at dawn, and we will not pretend to.

Readers will know his name. Only last week his furious letter ran here, the one about the prom at Silverwolf High and what came home in place of his daughter, and he had not let the matter drop. He was still demanding the name of whoever wrote that after-sundown DJ down as highly recommended. The Board will say plainly what the strip is already saying quietly. No examiner was sent, and ORCM called the death no matter for the city. The two men who carried him in said he was cold long before they reached him, and pale as paper. One of them said the pallor was the same he had seen on Garrick’s own daughter the morning after the dance. We make no claim about what that means.

He is survived by his wife, Wenna, and by two children. The family asks for no visits until the week is out. Go gently, Garrick, for we all will miss you.

The Faded Lands Community Board collects notices, classifieds, and remembrances from the outer reaches. Condolences for the Thornby family, and offers of help with the planting, may be sent by owl.