23.
The bone lies on the metal table of the laboratory. It is alone. Outside, birds sing the small quiet songs of the falling
night. In the morning, they will shout that the sun is here, like it is a great surprise, but for now, they have no idea of
tomorrow.
The bone tells a story to Mitchell, across the miles. It flies in the sky. It curls down on a breath of wind and finds Ruby’s
ear as she curls up in her bed, restless, her feet tangled in her blankets, thinking that she cannot feel, she can never heal,
she can never just be.
Shhh, the bone says, and opens a door for Ruby and Mitchell, who see a pale taupe sky. It is late spring, and the wind smells suspiciously
like a special kind of soap. It is a tender smell, almost too tiny to notice, but the birds have caught the scent, and they
carry it in their wings high into the shadows of the trees.
There is a crunch of shoes on gravel. The slamming of a car trunk.
Ruby moans in her sleep.
The wind rushes past now: It coils all the way to Hammock County, where the motel owner, Willa, sits up late, kneading her
knuckles. Lately, the insomnia has gotten her, and she doesn’t know why: Tears prick her eyes at the oddest times. It’s been
happening since that investigator came to town. The man who killed Betty will soon be killed himself. He’ll be dead, and what
difference will it make?
The bone sang to Willa, and at the same time, it lay its hand over hundreds of women: In that moment, all the flags on the map on Ruby’s wall laid down at once, and Ruby was paddling her feet in her sleep like she was running, running to her mom, her heart open and exploding in delight, but as the dream ended, she was standing in the field behind the poorhouse, and all the grass was mowed down.