His head felt like a bag of water, sloshing back and forth behind his sore eyes. He could not focus properly—things kept going into and out of detail. He made it to the door. Outside, a cold drizzle matted his hair in minutes. The chill seeped into his body.

He stood in the drizzle, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. The pistol in his right pocket was warm against his hand. He tried to clear his head, recover his bearings. The river was behind him, his home off to the right. He started walking straight ahead. He had to find Gray Ellen.

Bessie King noticed somebody sneaking around the back of the house and stole out through the kitchen to investigate. “David?” she called softly into the darkness. “David boy?”

A light-skinned Negro in a pearl-gray overcoat and hat stepped out of the drizzle into the kitchen light. Drops of water beaded on the fine fabric of his coat and glistened along the brim of his fedora.

She said, “Mr. Manly?”

The man shook his head. “I am a preacher of the Lord, ma’am. Come to bring you sad news.”

Bessie took a step back and braced herself against the doorjamb. The drizzle was on her face. “Oh, lordy, lordy. My David.”

“I am sorry, ma’am.”

She steadied herself. “Where is he?”

“At the mortuary down on Second, ma’am. You best wait until morning.”

She nodded and put her face into her hands. When she lifted her head, the light-skinned man had melted away.

Bessie locked the back door and stood in the kitchen, looking stupidly at the pots and pans. Her mind was a rushing vacuum. Something deep inside her shuddered. She could feel herself falling, and she held onto the counter with both hands. Her soul was faltering. She tried to pray and could not. All she could utter was “Sweet Jesus.”

She stood at the sink for several minutes to let the rushing go out of her head. She could feel her soul swirling around in her breast. She wished she had never set foot outside to see who the skulker was. If she didn’t know, then it hadn’t happened. Yet what he had told her must be true—it felt true. Felt truer than anything she had ever heard.

After a time, she heard sobbing and realized it was not her own. Almost automatically, she floated through the dining room and into the parlor, where Gabrielle sat folded into a sofa, sobbing into her hands. Her body convulsed with each sob. The tears ran out between her fingers.

Bessie laid a hand on her arm, and Gabrielle looked up. “Oh, Bessie,” she whispered. “This is an awful day.”

She must have overheard, Bessie thought. She sat down next to Gabrielle and put an arm around her shoulder. The two women hugged and cried together. Bessie prayed, “Father, do not forsake us in the hour of our trial.”