He touched my shoulder. I jumped away, feeling skittish as a cat. “Harmony,” he said in frustration. “Don’t worry.” Once even a brush of his hand could send me reeling for days. I was wondering about when the sterilization hurts more than the wound, when the victory costs more than the defeat.

He got close to my ear. “She’s not really gone.”

“What?” I said.

His voice was sharp in my ear. “She didn’t die. We didn’t even see her.” Then he kissed my ear.

“Why are you messing with me?” I said, and my voice broke.

“Dice was not telling the truth. I am.” His breath was hot; the night was cold. “You’re too sad, you’re sadder than I expected.” He pulled back. “Don’t tell Dice I said that.” I didn’t know why Dice would lie to me. I was used to Bay’s being Dice’s hands, and it was uncomfortable to sense him venturing out alone—I didn’t know where the truth was. The yard spun, and I pressed my cheeks with my hands.

“Are you okay?” Bay said, his expression faltering.

I didn’t speak, because I didn’t know the answer.

Bay looked around uneasily. “I mean to say”—his tone grew more confident—“there is no definite self.” There was the Bay I recognized. The sure one, the one who was always loyal. The one who’d never contradict Dice.

“ ‘Come, my soul, and let us try,’ ” he said, “ ‘for a little season.’ ” My swollen heart darted in his direction. He belonged to the milk cow and the bees, with all that tough gentle knowledge stored up in his hands. It wasn’t too late. In that moment, I chose to believe Bay. My mother was alive. Bay grabbed my hair and pulled it down, exposing my neck. I opened like a gate. I was sure he liked total surrender. It was the kind of feeling that wiped out all possibility of escape. For the first time I touched his scarred arms, and the skin was slippery and soft as liquid.

* * *

Deep winter roosted in the holler. The snow came down like white wings. The trees froze to the heartwood.

We sang “China.”

Why do we mourn departing friends?

Or shake at death’s alarms?