Earlier that morning, a redheaded young man had come to visit Rachel. He was more boy than man, closer to Rachel’s age. Rachel behaved differently toward him than the girls behaved to the other men. She kissed him with her eyes closed. And she talked to him in a soft voice. Marigold asked Rachel about him, but Rachel refused to talk about it. There were some things women did not dare discuss for fear they would not come true if they did.

The weather was god-awful hot. The ground seemed to be softer than normal because of the heat. Marigold thought it felt like the whole world was melting, or maybe the whole world was dying.

Marigold’s red-and-white cotton dress had holes in the seams. She poked her finger through one of the seams. She was falling apart, she thought. Inside and out.

She thought of Maggie every moment. She remembered the way the baby trusted her. That’s what babies did. They trusted people. Maggie was the only creature who had ever trusted her. Marigold saw Maggie in her dreams every night. And in her dreams, she saw Maggie’s purple eyes and round face.

A back door swung open, then slapped shut.

The redheaded young man walked out of Rachel’s room. He was shirtless and barefoot, with a wad of clothes beneath his arm. His cropped hair was the color of a new penny. He pulled suspenders over his white shoulders and stomped past Marigold.

“Don’t go, Lawrence,” Rachel called to him. “Please don’t go.”

But the young man was obviously upset. He clomped off the porch, then crawled into a car with chrome fenders.

“I’m sorry,” said Rachel, walking after him. “I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry!”

Rachel walked barefoot on the gravel toward his car, gathering her skirt in her hands. “Please don’t leave, not like this.”

But the redhead paid Rachel no mind. He fired his motor and sped away, leaving a puff of brown dust in the air behind his bumper.

Rachel stood in the center of the road behind Cowikee’s. She was too upset to even make tears. Or maybe women like Rachel had lost the ability to make tears. Maybe a girl can only make so many before she uses them all up.

Marigold came behind Rachel and observed her porcelain face—sad but dry. Marigold said, “Is everything okay?”

Rachel said nothing. Moments passed between them, and only the distant sound of cicadas could be heard. Marigold rested her hand on Rachel’s shoulder. She sensed a weight of sadness. The weight became so heavy, Marigold could not even remove her hand from beneath it.

Rachel pulled away from her. She gave Marigold a bewildered look but said nothing.

“It’s hot,” Rachel finally said. “Someone needs to hang another rattlesnake on the fence.” Then she walked to her room and left Marigold standing in the road.