Irene closed the door as soon as Tritia came out into the hall, and led the way silently back to the living room. She picked up her iced tea before sitting down on the sofa. Ice cubes rattled nervously against the glass. “He was working in the Tonto,” she explained, “out by Payson, and was doing ax work when he swung and missed and chopped off his big toe. I don’t know how he got that toe and missed the others, or how he didn’t chop off a whole chunk of his foot, but he chopped off only the toe. He said he was screaming so loud that loggers miles away could hear the echoes through the trees. He said the spurting blood turned the green pine needles all around him red.

“They always had someone with them who knew first aid, because there were always logging accidents like these, and somehow they got the bleeding stopped and took him to the hospital in Payson. They didn’t have surgical techniques like they do today, and the doctor said he wouldn’t be able to sew the toe back on, even though they brought it with them. He said it would be better to close up the existing wound and let it heal.” She was silent for a moment.

“What happened to the toe?” Tritia asked.

“Jasper called me, told me what happened, and I had someone drive me to Payson. I didn’t drive in those days. The toe was in a jar in his hospital room, floating in this clear liquid, and he asked me if I wanted to save it, but I couldn’t think of anything more repulsive. I hated just seeing it there, and I had a nurse cover the jar while I was in the room. I certainly didn’t want a severed toe in my house, so I told him to have the hospital dispose of it.” She shook her head at the recollection. “Instead, I found out later, he and his logging buddies got drunk, had a mock funeral in the woods, and buried it.” She looked at Tritia, her eyes haunted. “That was a long time ago. There’s not many left who even know that story. And I can’t figure out how the mailman learned what happened, let alone how he found the toe again or how it could be in such good shape.”

“Maybe it’s not—” Tritia began.

“It is,” Irene said firmly.

“Did you call the police?”

“What for?”

“This is against the law. Some—”

Irene put a hand on her arm. The old woman’s fingers felt dry, cold. “Look,” she said, “this is not a police matter. This is something private.”