Chance pointed with his chin toward the corner table. “She’s there. My mother pulled her out of you. Otherwise you would have hemorrhaged to death.”

“She told you she pulled that rock from me?”

He nodded again, held her hands in his. They were cool against her overheated skin.

“Susana’s note. It wasn’t a metaphor?” She swallowed the cotton in her throat. What did it mean? How could she have birthed a rock baby? And why? “What does Malia say? And your Elders? Do they know what that light was? It started everything, I know it did. Whatever is happening, it’s because of that light. A nuclear explosion? Radiation? That light did this to my baby. It made her a rock.”

His face sagged, his smile disappeared. “I spoke to the Elders, yes. And I’ll help you make this right, mujer. For your family. I don’t know how much time I’ll have. But I made you a promise.”

“What happened with the Elders? Why is Malia so scared?”

“I killed two gods, mujer. There is no coming back from that.”

“But those monsters would have killed us.”

“Then I should have died with honor.”

She didn’t understand. He’d been saving their lives. Surely there was honor in that.

“What will they do? Punish you? How?”

“There’s a ceremony for atonement. And a sacrifice.”

His tone was so ominous her skin crawled. “Sacrifice? Like human sacrifice? I thought Zunis don’t …”

“It’s not like that, mujer. But I’m not a religious leader; I do not speak for my kiva. I’m sorry I can’t say anything more.”

“Not even to your wife?”

“In Zuni culture, women are not supposed to know the deeper ways of the religious ceremonies.”

“But I’m not Zuni.”

“Nor my wife.”

She pulled her hands away from his as if she’d touched an oven.

“Mujer, it’s not right, nor is it appropriate.”

“Help me up, please. I can’t stand this hot sand bed. I’m sweating like a pig.”

“That’s a misnomer. Pigs lie in the mud to cool down.”

“I know that. Do you have any mud?”

“You shouldn’t get up yet. The healing ceremony isn’t over.”

“I’m not Zuni nor your wife, remember.”

He looked like she had punched him. “How can you be angry with me?”

She shrugged, scrunched her face. “It comes easily.”

He took the baby from her arms as she propelled herself to her side, pushed herself up. He lifted her to face him. Sweat beaded her neck and breasts, her yucca-woven dress clinging to her body. She groaned with effort, her perineum and thighs still sore. The rags between her legs still damp with blood.

His voice thick, his breath hotter still against her skin, he said, “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’ve done wrong? What’s inappropriate?”