Most days George manages to pick up his tools and take to the fields like any other hand. He gets by. He moves around a lot. He hasn't many friends.

Every once in a quiet afternoon, when a creek catches the sun low and gold, or when the reeds whisper a somber hymn to they dying day, he can see him there. Kneeling. His head bare and trembling.

As every farm sits on a river, it seems George will never outrun this vision. Each new farm, a new river. Each new river, a new bank. A bank where Lennie can kneel and look out over the water, trying anew to fill those big eyes with George's promise.