She saw the man standing on the shore, fishing. A boy stood beside him. She felt the man’s happiness. A euphoria filled her head. Then she saw the man seated at the boy’s bedside. She saw the child with a rag on his forehead. And she saw the man carrying a short casket. She could see the man crying, alone beside a creek. She could feel the depth of loss.

She squeezed him and felt his bones beneath her grip. His fragile bones. She could feel each of his breaths.

He tried to break free from her grasp but could not. The hairy man fell to his knees. He stared at her with wide eyes.

“What are you?” he said.

“I’m so sorry you hurt,” said Marigold. “I’m so sorry.”

The place fell silent. The man’s eyes became wet and pink. Then he leapt to his feet and jogged for the door. He stumbled over a table and shot out of the railcar.

The woman lifted Marigold in her arms. Marigold opened her eyes and saw the woman’s face was colored with beautiful makeup.

“Oh, your cheeks,” said Marigold. “They’re so red and pretty.”

Twenty
Run, Boy, Run

The sun peeked through the second-story window of the small bedroom. Blake rose from the creaky bed, careful not to wake Coot. He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyelids were wrinkled, surrounded by lines that dug into his cheeks. He was not a young, handsome Southerner traveling with a western show, with a girl on each arm and a ten-gallon hat tilted on his head. He was an old man. His hair was thinning and his mustache was so thick it almost blended into the gray stubble on his cheeks. He was skinny, frail, stiff, and sore.

Long ago, he was the picture of showmanship. He could dangle from the saddle of a speeding horse while twirling a rope in his right hand. Now he couldn’t even crawl into bed without wincing.

He saw a floor fan in the corner, blowing on him. He heard the sound of a radio playing in another room. It took a few minutes to rally the strength to stretch his long arms into the air and shake the ache from his bones.

He wandered toward the tall window. The view overlooked miles of prairie and spring wheat that seemed to stretch toward the end of the world. In the distance, two men were scalping a field with a binder pulled by two horses. The machine sliced swatches of grass, one row at a time. They moved in a slow but deliberate way. They paused now and then to drink from a ladle and bucket.