Marigold was interrupted from her thoughts by a vehicle engine. A red car with chrome fenders and white tires pulled beside the porch. The car rolled toward the railcar slowly in the dusty driveway. The door opened. A man crawled out and stepped onto the porch. He was short, gray-haired. He stopped and paid a glance toward Marigold, then tipped his hat. He leaned forward and walked with an uneven gait. His limp was pronounced, his posture crooked.

“Evening, ladies,” he said.

Helen stamped out her cigarette. “Evening,” she said.

The man removed his hat and twisted it in his hands. He couldn’t seem to get words out. Marigold had seen this same look on most of the men who visited Cowikee’s railcar. Some were too timid to say what needed to be said.

“Y-y-you see,” he began. “I-I-I’m here because . . .”

Helen laughed. “Yeah, I know why you’re here. But we’re closed for business. Come back later.”

He replaced his hat and spun on his heel. He tipped his brim to Marigold again and started to walk away. He opened his door and crawled inside his car with great effort. Marigold watched him struggle to swing his legs into the vehicle. She heard him moan.

Marigold said, “Wait.”

He stopped, rested his head against his seat, panted.

“What’s wrong with your legs?” she asked.

“Ain’t my legs,” he said. “It’s my back.”

“What’s the matter with it?”

“Bifida. Only looks worse than it is. Just takes me a little while to get going.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It never quits hurting.”

“What’s bifida?”

“A fancy word that doctors say.”

“How did you get it?”

“My daddy gave it to me as a gift.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and chuckled. “I was born with it.”

Marigold felt something building in her chest, a buzzing inside her that made her head feel light. She almost felt as though she could see through this man somehow. Not inside him, but just beyond him. And the world changed around her. The sounds of the earth faded into nothing, and it was only her and this man, standing in a large, open place. No trees, no grass, no sky, no birds, no railcar.

She could see that he was a sad man. A man without a wife and alone, living in a large green house with white shutters. She knew he struggled to put on his clothes. She knew he ate his supper in loneliness each night. She didn’t know how she knew these things, but she knew them just the same.

“I wanna help you.”

The man wore a strange look. “I appreciate that, darling.”

“I mean it. I wanna help.”

“Help me do what?”

“I wanna make your back better.”

He furrowed his brow.

“Let her,” said Helen, who was standing on the porch, leaning on the railing. “Let her try.”