So it came as no surprise to her when she felt it, heard it. She knew it when she came in. The hospital was made to be reassuring, to give some sort of hope, she surmised—its lobby had been made to look very like an old mansion, with fat columns and marble floors, fine wooden panels and carved ceilings­—­but at the same time it was modern and fancy, with all sorts of machines lurking in corners. It didn’t deceive her none. Not the orderlies rushing about in their whites, not the loud families with their loud no-mannered children, not the patients with prosthetics who ambled about, not the wheelchair-ridden, nor the crutch-laden, not the shiny tiled floors, nor the jerky elevators that tinged at each floor and upset her stomach so. She knew, she knows.

So why is it, Ruth, if you are so firm in your knowledge and knowing, so sure of all these things and not fooled, why is it that you are so unnerved to see your husband’s cousin at death’s door?

Had he been a good man. Had he been a righteous man. Had he been a loving man. Had he been a man who cared for his children. Had he been a man who looked after his farm properly. Had he been a considerate man. Had he been a lucky man. Had he been a man who would, and could, turn away from a bottle. Had he been a faithful man. Had he been a religious, churchgoing, God-fearing man. Had he been a less handsome man. Had he been a man who couldn’t have laughed so brightly. Had he been a solemn man. Had he been a hard man. Had he been a soft man. Had he been . . .

So they had come this far . . . for what? To be depressed? To watch a dying man die? To . . .

“Obadiah? Obadiah! Boy, where is you?”

“I’m right here, Maw. Hush, now. Hush.”

. . . to pray over, to attempt to pray over, a dying man for this . . . this outrage? She wants to scream. She wants to holler, to grab the woman by that little white piece of mess that passes for a hospital gown and slam her up against the wall and yell: Can’t you see we trying to pray over here, you no-mannered white fool?

“Obadiah, my teeth ain’t in. Boy, where my teeth?”

“In your head, Maw. Now hush awhile.”

But the more Ruth thinks ill and hateful thoughts about the old woman in the room with Asa, the more pity swells up in her—no, not pity, something more like sorrow, sorrow for herself, sorrow for Asa, sorrow for Zeke, sorrow, yes, even for that crazy white bitch.

“Don’t somebody need to see about that colt? It’s cold outside. Go put a blanket around the colt, Obadiah. Will you, son? I’m scared it might freeze to death.”

“Maw, it ain’t gone freeze.”