Now, she took the bag and a small spade and walked to the flower beds at the front of the house. In between the petunias were clusters of white alyssum, but Josie knew that if she lifted the tufts, she would find ample planting space. She knelt on the grass edging, dug deep holes along the length of the bed, and pushed a bulb into each. She dug and planted, creating long rows of secreted flowers, until she was tired and dirty and the bag was empty. She had not used gloves, and her hands were filthy, but the dirt underneath her nails felt solid and real, and she remembered something she had read about tribes in South Africa: a family member often takes some of the earth covering a grave, puts it in a bottle, and goes home, sure that the deceased relative is coming home to look after the family.

Josie scooped up a handful of dirt, let it run back through her fingers, then scooped again. Perhaps her mother was looking down on her, perhaps Devesh and Tyler were right. She cradled the soil in her palm, then laid it down again. She patted it softly. “Three days after death, hair and fingernails continue to grow,” Josie said, “but phone calls taper off.” She smiled gently and sat back and looked at her work. Three months from now, the shoots would appear, uncurling until each was a tall green stalk, just grazing the vines that climbed the trellises against the house. But before the bulbs would unfurl, the honeysuckle and jasmine would bloom, and the air would be saturated with their warm, sugary blossoms. Josie loved that smell. When she was young, she would creep carefully through the flowers until she could conceal herself in the tangled bushes that lined the house. Once there, she would twirl the small white flowers under her nose until she had breathed in all the scent. She had forgotten about that. Somewhere among those bushes, she remembered, there was a hollow of some kind, a hideout.

Now, she stood, wiped her hands on the back of her jeans, and walked the perimeter of the house until she found it. It was at the back, barely noticeable behind her roses. The bushes formed a barricade, but near the gas meter was a tiny path just wide enough for the gas man to sidestep along. Josie followed it several feet and sat down on the cool metal of the meter. In front of her, the bushes formed a deep green wall, and below, their thin trunks jutted from the ground like tridents. The space was small, but she could see how a child could manage to squeeze herself from the meter to the ground and then slide carefully under the bushes.