Charley would be taking charge of things in the trailer, she thought, calming the missing-mother panic of his sisters with tales of constellation aliens, spaceship abductions, and lenticular pancakes. Her sweet, awkward firstborn forever scanning the sky for signs of life and omens, trying to show everyone around him all the potential it contained, to teach them to see what he saw. Baby Chris was squalling now with healthy lungs, the tiny fingers of one hand wrapped tightly around her index finger, his other hand stretched out, pointing toward the ichthyosaur. She turned his head toward the window so that he, too, could look toward the stars.

“Someday, you'll see how bright they are,” she whispered.

It was possible, Ruth thought, that being from nowhere might somehow allow this baby to belong everywhere, to call anywhere home.

Allen crawled beside her. He reached toward the baby, but then pulled his hand away. “We're going to have to get you a raise.”

Ruth laughed, shivered, tightened her arms around the bundle of baby on her chest. “I'll take it.”

THE FOLLOWING WEEK, RUTH rocked a sleeping Chris on the porch while the other three slept inside. She worried St. Christopher between her thumb and forefinger. She had one blanket over her shoulders and one on her lap. The night air was headed toward frost. It still carried the fragrant sage scent, but the dusty tones had shifted to something deeper, prehistoric. Del had come home for just two days to meet his new son, dance the girls around the kitchen, give Charley a UFO-shaped key chain.

As Del drove away, his return unspecified, Ruth realized she didn't miss Del so much as she missed his hands—hands that could button a child's coat, fix a dinner, warm her shoulders with their warmth and their weight. Any man had hands. Allen had hands, but they came with strings attached, and she wanted the strings less than she wanted the hands. Ruth had saved enough to get in the Falcon and drive, job be damned and Del, back to Colorado, but she hadn't left Gabbs. The Falcon's tires were threadbare but roadworthy, and Ruth had decided to drive them toward her first nursing class instead of retreating back home. The creamed corn money added up either way.

That night, when she waddled into the kitchen to count it, the creamed corn can was gone. Ruth felt everything in the hot center of herself twisting—gut, throat, heart. She reached for the countertop, heaving her weight just in time, and vomited into the chipped porcelain sink. She imagined Del in Vegas, turning her creamed corn money into slot tokens and lost potential. She imagined him in a liquor store, turning her creamed corn money into a happy solo buzz.

What now, St. Christopher?