“Not here for an appointment,” he said, and cleared his throat.

Lady Mae looked more closely at the reflection in the window. She saw the tall hat that he held under his arm and watched him blot his bald head with a white handkerchief in his other hand. She stiffened. She’d been waiting for a Deputy to show himself for two days, his boots kicking up the dust and leaving a cloud in his wake. And she’d been hoping it’d be the one, just so she could see once more to make sure. But she had been thinking of Arbuckle, haphazardly cleaning the window, and hadn’t heard him come up behind her.

“I’m Deputy Iverson—we spoke the other day on the telephone. Seems I came from Six just when I been needed most. You the lady that was attacked in the square on Saturday?” he asked.

“I weren’t the one attacked,” she said, and spun on her heel. The bucket swung and banged against her leg.

“Even still, I’m here to take a statement.” He put on his hat, placing his handkerchief back in his pocket. “Get your version of events.”

Lady Mae heard the redemption in his words, the long drawl of salvation. And when the wind carried his voice to her ears, she felt a prick, like someone had blown hot ash onto her skin. She squinted, held her hand up over her eyes, and looked closely at the Deputy’s face. As she stared after him, she watched him tilt his head back, and though he was saying something to her, she could not hear him. Her ears, which had heard the howling of the wind and the beating of her heart, filled with a silence muddy and thick. She watched the Deputy’s mouth move around in that mud. It was cold and dark and slow, and when his mouth moved again she saw the four long lines clear as day. She watched them stretch as her mother’s mouth had, watched them move up and down as he spoke. Lady Mae hovered, her heart beating up against her breast. She balanced there, delicately, her toes crunching up on themselves in her boots. She felt her knuckles tighten and her stomach fall.

“Lady Mae?”

“I got nothing to say.” She spoke through nearly closed lips, her jaw tight and her teeth clenching against each other.

She did not know what she meant other than you should be and dead like my mama. Because there in the morning light she understood what stood before her. Pail in hand, her toes just barely visible from beneath her skirts, she waited for the anxiousness that had been with her always, counting the seconds until it bubbled up inside of her. But as her words fell into the dust the sour panic didn’t come; she felt only that which she remembered from that day long ago when she lay on the ground, her ribs broke, her head split open, when she had crawled back up to her feet and called after the vicious children.