Ruth's unexpected kindness brought tears, and Mano let them run down her cheeks in rivers, let the snot drip from her nose like rain off a roof, let her shoulders shake in deep sobs. She felt sorry for herself, mostly, but also for the Stevies, for the dead kingfisher. She wondered again whether Ruth knew that Rick was cheating too, that he'd been cheating first.

Ruth sniffed and pushed the newspaper toward Mano. “When you pull yourself together, maybe you want to explain this?”

Mano wiped her eyes on her sleeve and then her nose, too. The front page of the newspaper had a grainy black-and-white photo of the construction site on the river, her fish drooping from their branches, the kingfisher, half eaten by some scavenger, attached by only one wing. She felt a quick shiver of excitement—that other people would see what she saw, that she would no longer be alone in seeing it.

The article, though, was full of speculation and outrage, her sculpture interpreted as bizarre satanic ritual, possibly related to fears of Halley's Comet. The reporter quoted a number of residents who hadn't thought it possible that depravity of that level could exist in their town. “Why would anyone kill a kingfisher?” one outraged resident asked. “Them cutthroat are endangered,” another said. “And they already been struggling this season.” Higher than usual numbers of dead fish had been observed in and near the river this spring, the article read, causing many to speculate that Halley's Comet had somehow upset the balance of the river ecosystem, though the reporter was careful to add that the cause of the fish kills was unknown and unproven. “Whoever did this should be tarred and feathered,” said a final interviewee, who added that she no longer felt safe to walk her corgis along the river trail. “Or at least they should know better. People are scared enough.”

Mano thought back to her favorite art professor, a woman who wore colorful patterned caftans and Birkenstocks, kind and creative and cool. “You can't follow your art into the world to defend it,” she'd said. “Your art has to speak for itself.” Mano was horrified. This was not at all what she'd thought her art would say.

Ruth studied the photo in the paper, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “The crow feathers? On the fish? I like that. That's got style.”

Mano tried to sort her thoughts into some sort of order—her marriage, the comet, the way the world was, the way the world should be, but it was like untangling knotted hair, complicated, painful, time-consuming. “I didn't kill the kingfisher. I didn't kill anything.” Her whole body felt shaky, loose, impossible to contain. She stood up and paced the length of the kitchen.

She grabbed the Pepsi bottle out of her purse, handed it to Ruth. “It's from the river. It's a sample. If I get it tested, I can prove that the construction poisoned the fish.”