Sister's life, until recently, has been full of the fear of this sort of reprimand, but she cannot take this boy-priest seriously as a spiritual leader. She almost laughs out loud, but then she remembers herself at twenty-eight, sanctimonious, sure of all the wrong things. She has a moment of empathy. Maybe, at twenty-eight, this would have looked like leadership to her, too.

“I wiped the snot from Johnny March's nose,” Sister says. “Just because he's willing to risk his own children for money doesn't mean he should get to risk everyone else's.”

“The jobs in oil and gas feed these families”—Father Morel gestures for emphasis, his pointer finger raised to the sky.

Sister thinks of Marilyn, in the cold hospital room, fighting to keep her baby boy alive. “And they should have to poison them in order to feed them?”

Sister prays. This can't possibly be your plan.

Father Morel drops his eyes, walks away. It is as though he hadn't been speaking to her at all.

That night, Sister returns to the vestibule, prays the rosary silently except the end of every “Glory Be,” which she half sings, half sobs. She thinks of the way finches bounce when they fly, such happy little birds. Her prayers echo in the empty sanctuary.

As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

EARLY JUNE BRINGS UNSEASONABLE heat. Without attention to irrigation and watering, drought parches the lawns. Finch is kept alive by NICU tubes, his prognosis unclear. The drill rig is on-site near the school playground. Ruth and Mano throw a dinner party. “Let's just try to make a little joy,” Ruth says.

They curl Gretchen's hair into Shirley Temple ringlets, let her drink Hawaiian Punch and 7Up until her mouth is stained red, teach her the kick and twirl of the schottische, just as their father taught them. They wear the girl out so well that Marilyn has to carry her, sleeping, to the car.

When it is only the sisters left sitting around the table with their gin rummy, Ruth says, “I don't trust that look on your face, Sister.”

“Have another drink,” Sister says. “You'll trust everyone then.”

“We know you're up to something,” Mano says.

“You don't,” Sister says.

“Sure we do,” Ruth says.

Mano giggles into her tumbler. Ruth swirls her drink in circles. Sister adds a splash of vodka to her cranberry juice, hears ice cracking. Her sisters carry on, lighting thick cigars and chatting. Sister is not wearing cat-eye glasses or a corsage or her best dress from 1968 (let out a few sizes) as a gag, like the other two, but she is relaxed tonight, vaguely euphoric, grateful. She has still heard nothing about the bleach.