To Dr. Charles J. Marr, teacher and poet, uncle and inspiration, thank you for years of conversation, letters, and encouragement for my lit-love. I love you, Uncle C.

MAYLENE PUT ONE HAND ATOP THE STONE FOR support; pulling herself up from the soil got harder every year. Her knees had been problem enough, but of late the arthritis had started settling in her hips. She brushed the soil from her hands and from her skirt and pulled a small bottle from her pocket. Carefully avoiding the green shoots of the tulip bulbs she’d planted, Maylene tilted the bottle over the earth.

“Here you go, dear,” she whispered. “It’s not the shine we used to sip, but it’s what I have to share.”

She stroked the top of the stone. No grass clippings had collected there; no spider silk stretched from the top. She was careful of the smallest detail.

“Do you remember those days? Back porch, sunshine, and mason jars”—she paused at the remembered sweetness—“we were so foolish then ... thinking there was a big ol’ world out there to conquer.”

Pete, for his part, wasn’t likely to reply: those who were properly buried and minded didn’t speak.

She made the rest of her rounds through Sweet Rest Cemetery, stopping to clean debris from stones, pour a bit of drink onto the ground, and say her words. Sweet Rest was the last of the cemeteries on the week’s schedule, but she didn’t shortchange the residents.

For a small town, Claysville had a high number of graveyards and cemeteries. By law, everyone ever born within town limits had to be buried here; consequently, the town had more deceased residents than living ones. Maylene wondered sometimes what would happen if the living knew of the bargain the town founders had made, but every time she’d broached the topic with Charles, she’d been rebuffed. Some battles weren’t ones she could win—no matter how much she wanted them.