Outside the tent. Abraham, still ninety-nine, sits in the shade. A one-humped camel is tethered nearby.
Narrator’s Voice:Now Abraham and Sarah were old and well stricken in age; and it ceased to be with Sarah after the manner of women. And Abraham sat in the tent door in the heat of the day.
Abraham closes his eyes and begins to snooze. And dream.
A desert well. Abraham and his thirteen-year-old son sit in a pair of lounge chairs beside a well, ﬁshing. The son feels a tug on his pole. He yanks and is soon ﬁghting the ﬁsh he has just hooked. He slowly reels it in, while Abraham prepares a net to retrieve it. They ﬁnally land an octopus.
A baseball diamond in a desert pasture. Abraham sits behind the home dugout with a camcorder, pointing it at the action on the ﬁeld. Abraham’s son, dressed in a Camel League uniform with the nickname “He-Asses,” is at the plate, pointing with his bat, like Babe Ruth, at a distant target. The pitcher, wearing a uniform bearing the nickname “Librarians,” pitches; the son hits the ball four hundred feet, scattering a herd of sheep. Abraham bounds onto the ﬁeld and records his son rounding the bases.
The saloon. Evening. Abraham’s young son and a thirteen-year-old girl sit at a table, drinking goat milk. The two gaze intently at each other. They stand. They walk upstairs, his arm around her. They disappear into an upstairs bedroom. A moment later, a cap gun rings out.