I drove to the deck downtown. It was grungy and loud, littered with cigarette butts that had been stomped into the wood, the dried tobacco leaves spread everywhere. No one had seen Jack since that afternoon. I smoked a cigarette, trying my best to block out the scream-singing of some local punk band.

When I arrived at the city garden, it was empty and damp. The flower beds were designed with symmetry in mind, peppered with tulips and roses, with ivy and pothos clinging to the rock face walls. The benches were vacant, shimmering with droplets that reflected the yellow street lights. I wiped a space with my sleeve and sat, doing a bump of cocaine with my car key before continuing on toward the graveyard.

The witching-hour air was bitingly bitter. I walked along the paved path, the whistling of wind and my heels clicking created the only noise in the vicinity. I examined the headstones, covered with moss and barely legible wording that had been flattened by time. I stopped in front of a small headstone that was encased in a rectangle of wood. I ran my fingers along the tomb, making out the date: 1876–1877.

I was on edge, spooked and half-cut, driven by my desperation to find Jack. It was always stronger than any of my other emotions. It was carnal, compulsory, illogical. My eyes scanned every nook and cranny as I periodically peeked over my shoulder to ensure no one was following me.

Then I heard a groan. I knew that groan. I followed it until I found Jack, lying between two headstones, wearing his navy-blue cashmere coat and pleated brown trousers. His hair was damp, his forehead gashed, his hair caked with dried blood. I ran toward him and dropped to my knees, shaking him furiously. “Jack?!”

He writhed on the ground and continued to moan. I repeated his name, shaking him.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he opened his eyes, green and dewy. “Grace?”

“Yes, baby.” I smiled, forgetting the entire night in that moment. My anger and desperation melted, and I was filled with relief and warmth. “It’s me. I need you to get up.”

“Gracie, tell me a story.”

“Okay, but I need you to get up first.” I tried yanking him to his feet, but he just flopped.

He groaned and chuckled, chanting, “Story, story, story.”

I immediately remembered one of the nursery rhymes that William would recite whenever I had misbehaved as a child. Knowing that Jack wouldn’t comply until I told him something, I began:

Jack and Jill went up the hill

To fetch a pail of water

Jack fell down and broke his crown

And Jill came tumbling after.

Up Jack got

And home did trot,

As fast as he could caper;

Went to bed

To mend his head

With vinegar and brown paper.

Jill came in

And she did grin

To see his paper plaster;

Mother, vex’d,

Did whip her next

For causing Jack’s disaster