She retrieved the letter from the tile, began again:

Calliope, mija—
She turned to stone.
I swear I’m not crazy, I’m not—
How will I return to her, ama? Dust. Ash.
Hold yours tight.
(She’s in my hand, this rock. Entiendes?)
Ten cuidado. Me voy al otro lado,

Susana

Calliope sucked in the air around her. It wasn’t enough air. She couldn’t breathe. She pressed the letter to her chest, willed her lungs to expand.

“Eunjoo?”

The singing stopped.

“Eunjoo,” her voice harsh, scolding.

The girl peeked her head from behind the shower curtain.

“Did you see where this letter came from? Did you see how it got into the backpack?”

Eunjoo’s gaze darted to the letter, then briefly, fearfully at Calliope, then back to the tile. She said nothing.

“Did you put it there?”

Eunjoo stared at the floor.

“Did Susana say something to you? Did you talk to her?”

Eunjoo shook her head.

Calliope’s voice caught in her throat, she whispered, “Please.”

The water streamed behind the curtain. Eunjoo said, her voice small, “It was on the table.”

When? How? She thought back.

There hadn’t been time.

Susana had been scribbling into the dirt when Calliope pulled up to the house; she’d still been there, a statue on the ground, when she’d gone inside, changed Eunjoo, gone back to the car. Then she was gone.

But not to the house to write a note. How could Susana have written a note? She was catatonic. She was singing pío pío pío.

Then she was dead. In the barn. There’d been no time.

Unless she’d written the note before Calliope even arrived.

And Calliope had missed it. She’d missed it. How had she missed it?

She could’ve saved her friend. Susana, why?

“Why didn’t you give it to me?”

The water running down Eunjoo’s face, she looked scared.

“Why?” Calliope repeated, forcefully.

“I didn’t want to make you sad.”

Calliope sucked in her breath.

It didn’t make sense. She looked at the letter.

She looked at the girl.

Eunjoo said nothing.

The shower poured.

“Turn the water off, chica.”

Grasping the sink, she heaved herself up. Left the backpack on the floor.

Curled onto her tía’s bed, clutching Susana’s suicide letter. Numb.

And powerless to change one goddamned thing.

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-THREE

SHIFT

Calliope’s mother had a dicho, a saying: Ahogado el niño, tapando el pozo. After the child drowns, close the well. Or, it’s wisest to prevent tragedy before it happens.

Eunjoo was screaming from the bathroom. A heavy pounding against a wall, glass breaking from somewhere in the living room or kitchen. Sharp cracking booms of rifle fire. Firecracking of a pistol. The chaos too much to absorb, Calliope focused on only one thing. Eunjoo was screaming.