She drives on toward Salt Lake, talking to the hawk in a voice she used to use with her little brother whenever he got in trouble; whenever he’d done something her father wasn’t supposed to know about. The hawk never stops blinking. She tilts the rearview mirror so she can see its yellow eye. Her arm reaches out dreamily and her fingers lightly caress the cold green ceramic urn. Her body calms down and she begins to feel a strange tranquillity with the idea that she alone is responsible for the wounded and the dead. She feels confident now that she can see this thing through, no matter what the outcome. She snaps the radio on to an oldies channel: Clyde McPhatter singing “A Lover’s Question” in high pristine falsetto. The voice melts through her and seems to be having the same salving effect on the hawk. She can’t believe how still he is. She has no idea where she’s going to find help for an injured hawk but, somehow, she’s not worried. The panic has left her. She keeps hunching up on the steering wheel now and then; checking in the mirror; watching the blinking eye to make sure it hasn’t died. She thinks of her sister Sally again and the hundred bucks. It just comes back to her like a bad habit. She thinks of Wisconsin and all those relatives awaiting her mother’s ashes. She starts seeing their faces: aunts and uncles, cousins she’s lost track of, kids she doesn’t know how she’s related to. She drifts into visions of the funeral; weeping faces, Bible verses, someone singing.