The crowd of onlookers had fallen completely silent. Even the noise from the crickets and frogs had faded.

“Joseph,” she said. “Now that’s a nice name.”

The woman pressed her hands on Joseph’s belly. She laid them so gently, Coot wondered if she was even touching Joseph at all. She breathed in a slow rhythm. The sounds of the world had ended.

“Hello, Joseph,” said the woman.

A stillness overtook Coot. And the world seemed brighter. Even though the sun had almost set, it seemed as though it were midday somehow. He closed his eyes because the sincerity of the moment seemed to demand it.

All he could hear was the sound of breathing.

Coot opened his eyes and saw Joseph’s chest rise, then fall. The old man lurched forward and coughed like he’d inhaled a fist of flour.

There were gasps from the crowd and several hallelujahs, along with a few screams. One baby started to cry.

The deputies had removed their hats. Even the sheriff stood with his hat pressed against his chest. Then applause. Then the light clapping turned into the roaring sound of voices, chattering in what sounded like another language. People pressed in to get a better look and began to lose their minds.

The deputies did their best to hold them back, but failed. The crowd was pressing in and about to suffocate them. People started clawing at the redheaded woman. Someone pulled her hair. Someone tugged on the woman’s powder-blue dress so hard the sleeve tore.

But the woman didn’t seem to be affected. She only moved her hands to Joseph’s chest.

She held them there until his cough died into a gentle wheeze. Joseph’s eyes opened. He wore a look of confusion. “Myrna, Myrna,” said the old man. “Is it you, darling?”

“No,” said the woman. “My name’s Marigold.”

Then she collapsed and passed out, and the wild crowd almost trampled her to death.

Seventy-Six
Going Home

It was late when Pete’s tires rolled into Miss Warner’s drive. The familiar farm welcomed him even though it was dark and he could see nothing but its outline against the sky. The little home was surrounded by buckshot stars, and the night seemed so quiet it was almost perfect.

He’d only been gone a few days, but those days had been long ones. Stringbean jumped out of the vehicle after him. He was careful to shut the truck door without making too much noise. Everyone would be asleep at this hour, and no lights were on in the house.

He walked through the yard, past the sleeping chickens roosting on the fence posts.

Pete stepped toward the barn and removed his hat when he looked at the place where he’d found Paul’s fallen body. He bowed his head.