The car pulled into the short oil-spotted driveway, a length of buckling asphalt barely longer than the shabby old hydrogen-powered compact itself. For a moment, the engine continued to idle. No one emerged. Then the motor was cut, and Mr. Glen Swan opened the passenger's door and stepped out.

The postcard-sized yard was ankle-high with the vigorous weeds of late spring. A cement walkway led from the driveway to the scuffed door of a small house that was plainly the architectural clone of its many close-pressing neighbors. The yellow paint on the bungalow was flaking. A plastic trike lay oh its side, half on the walk, half on the lawn, one wheel still uselessly spinning in the air.

Swan studied the scene, It was nicer than anyplace he had ever lived.

And much, much nicer than the prison.

Movement by his left side startled him from his reverie. He hadn't even heard the car's driverside door open and close.

Without taking his gaze from the house, Swan said the first thing that came to his mind. "Uh, it's nice."

A woman's voice responded, if not flatly, then with a measure of reserve. "It's home."

Swan could not immediately think of what else to say. So, still regarding the house, he repeated something he had said earlier, said more than once.

"I'm sorry you had to drive. It's just that I never learned how."

The woman's voice remained level, neither frustrated nor sympathetic, though her words partook of some small traces of both emotions. "You apologized enough already. Don't worry. You'll learn how soon enough. Meanwhile you can ride the bus. The stop is just five blocks away."

There was silence between them. Then the woman said, "Do you want to go in?"

"Yeah. Sure. Thanks."

The woman sighed. "You don't have to thank me. It's your house too."

The front parlor was decorated with a wooden plaque bearing a Pragmatist inspirational motto (REGARD ONLY THE OUTPUT OF THE BLACK BOX), a framed print of a nature scene, a dusty artificial bouquet. The couch and chairs had seen much wear. A low table held several quietly murmuring magazines, the cheap batteries powering their advertisements running low with age.

There were no pictures displayed of the man who had died in Swan's place. But Swan had no trouble calling up his face.

There was another woman inside the house. She was trim, on the petite side, brown hair cut short, and wore a pair of green stretchpants topped by a white sweater in the new pixel-stitch style. Her sweater depicted a realistic cloud-wrapped Earth.

"Hi," the woman said, attempting a small smile. "Welcome home."

Because of his studies, Swan recognized the woman as his sister-in-law, Sally.

"Hi, uh, Sally." He extended his hand, and she shook it. Swan liked the fact that people would shake his hand now. He was starting to believe a little more in all this, in the whole scenario of exculpation, although every other minute he still expected the carpet of his freedom to be pulled from beneath his feet, sending him tumbling back into his cell.

"Will's in his bedroom," said Sally a little nervously, addressing mostly the other woman. "He was very good all morning. But when he saw the car..."

Emboldened by the ease of the transition so far, of his seeming acceptance by the two women, made slightly giddy by the very air of freedom on this, the late afternoon of the day of his execution, recalling several of the mottoes of his pragmatics classes that counseled forthrightness and confidence, Swan said, "I'll go see him."

The layout of the house had been among his study materials. Swan strode confidently to the boy's bedroom door. He knocked and called out, "'Will, it's me, your father."

Behind him the two women were quiet. Through the door came no words, just small sounds of a small body moving.

Swan raised his hand to knock again, but before he could the door opened.

Will was four, but tall for his age. From photos Swan knew his face very well. But he could not see it now.

Will wore the all-enveloping rubber mask of sonic kind of reptilian alien, possibly from Star Wars VI.

"You're Glen now," the boy said, his voice muffled.

Swan squatted, putting his face on a level with tile goofy mask. "That's right. And you're Will."

"No," said the boy firmly. "Not anymore."

Their first supper together as a family of three was a largely silent affair, save for a few neutral questions and comments, perfunctory requests and assents. Swan tasted nothing vividly, except perhaps the single beer he permitted himself. Never much of a drinker, he was somewhat startled to find how much he had missed the flavor of the drink, the feelings of sociability it conjured up, while in prison.

Will had been convinced to discard his mask for supper. Swan smiled frequently at him. The handsome young boy--Swan fancied lie could spot some affinities between the young face and the one he himself saw in the mirror each morning--returned the smiles with a look not belligerent, but distant as the stars.

Much of the meal Swan spent covertly studying his wife. Emma Swan both cooperated with and slightly frustrated this inspection by eating with her head mostly lowered over her plate.

Swan's wife resembled her sister Sally in height and build. But her face, thought Swan, was prettier and her longer, lighter hair suited her. Although some of her movements were nervously awkward, she exhibited an overall easy grace.

Glen Swan had been a lucky man, he thought.

But I'm Glen Swan now.

So does that mean that I share his luck?