“I’ll call on the ak’waamossi, medicine man, from Uhuhuukwe Medicine Society with knowledge of iwenashnaawe, which you could translate as the sucking cure.” He paused, said quietly, “As a rule, Zuni don’t treat anyone outside the tribe, not because we’re selfish, but we’ve learned the hard way that outsiders do not respect our beliefs or our methods.” He sighed. “But maybe these are extenuating circumstances. I’ll risk asking.” He bore the same troubled visage as when he’d slaughtered the first Suuke and queried the punishment for murdering a god, and Calliope sensed he was risking much more than he was willing to admit by bringing her and her friends here, allowing them into his sacred world.

Mara’s raspy voice, “I heard a Fly buzz - when I died - / The Stillness in the Room / Was like the Stillness in the Air - / Between the Heaves of Storm -” As she coughed through the recitation, phlegm gathered at the folds of her mouth, peeling and chapped. “Dickinson.”

“You haven’t died,” Calliope said.

“Want to bet?”

Calliope thought of Amy’s lifeless body in the back of the truck. Whether or not this was the Spirit world, they were not dead, at least, not yet.

They climbed out of the truck, Eunjoo holding Calliope’s hand, Chance carrying the old woman. At the wooden door atop the steps of the house, a woman with warm, rose-brown skin appeared. She wore a cobalt-blue dress and woven slippers, her hair dark save wisps of silver at her hairline, clipped back with turquoise barrettes. Crow’s feet marked her laugh lines, and her square mahogany eyes were friendly. In her hands she held a bowl of soft corneal mush. She exclaimed, “Aktsek’i. You’re home. I knew you would come.”

“Tsitda. I’m home.”

Calliope felt a pang at the exchange between mother and son, though she was glad for the warm welcome.

“Tsitda,” he said, gesturing from his mother to Calliope, “This is my hom:il’ona … and her family.”

Calliope shot him a questioning look, and he nodded reassuringly.

“Son, you got married again? And a baby on the way!”

He didn’t answer but smiled broadly, his whole face aglow, while Calliope’s stomach lurched and her eyes widened. She tried to mask the surprise on her face, but couldn’t. She stared again at Chance, whose eyes narrowed at her, silently asking her to play along. She pasted a smile to her face as he introduced her to his mother, and as she reached out to shake the woman’s hand, Malia embraced her, the bowl of cornmeal pressed against Calliope’s back. His mother pulled away, still grasping Calliope’s arms and looking into her eyes, then spoke softly and quickly in Zuni.

Chance said, “She doesn’t speak Zuni. Only English and Spanish.”