"You're not supposed to move people when they've got bad head-wounds," Jordan fretted, trailing along behind them and carrying her pack.

"That's nothing we have to worry about," Clay said. "She can't live, Jordan. Not like she is. I don't think even a hospital could do much for her." He saw Jordan's face begin to crumple. There was enough light for that. "I'm sorry."

They laid her on the grass. Tom tried to give her water from a Poland Spring bottle with a nipple end, and she actually took some. Jordan gave her the sneaker, the Baby Nike, and she took that, too, squeezing it, leaving smears of blood on it. Then they waited for her to die. They waited all that night.

She said, "daddy told me i could have the rest, so don't blameme." That was around eleven o'clock. She lay with her head on Tom's pack, which he had stuffed with a motel blanket he'd taken from the Sweet Valley Inn. That had been on the outskirts of Methuen, in what now seemed like another life. A better life, actually. The pack was already soaked with blood. Her one remaining eye stared up at the stars. Her left hand lay open on the grass beside her. It hadn't moved in over an hour. Her right hand squeezed the little sneaker relentlessly. Squeeze . . . and relax. Squeeze . . . and relax.

"Alice," Clay said. "Are you thirsty? Do you want some more water?"

She did not answer.

Later—quarter of one by clay's watch—she asked someone if she could go swimming. Ten minutes later she said, "I don't want those tampons, those tampons are dirty," and laughed. The sound of her laughter was natural, shocking, and it roused Jordan, who had been dozing. He saw how she was and started to cry. He went off by himself to do it. When Tom tried to sit beside him and comfort him, Jordan screamed for him to go away.

At quarter past two, a large party of normies passed by on the road below them, many flashlights bobbing in the dark. Clay went to the edge of the slope and called down to them. "You don't have a doctor, do you?" he asked, without much hope.

The flashlights stopped. There was a murmur of consultation from the dark shapes below, and then a woman's voice called up to him, a rather beautiful voice. "Leave us alone. You're off-limits."

Tom joined Clay at the edge of the bank. " 'And the Levite also passed by on the other side,' " Tom called down. "That's King James for fuck you, lady."

Behind them, Alice suddenly spoke in a strong voice. "The men in the car will be taken care of. Not as a favor to you but as a warning to others. You understand."

Tom grabbed Clay's wrist with a cold hand. "Jesus Christ, she sounds like she's awake."

Clay took Tom's hand in both of his own and held it. "That's not her. That's the guy in the red hoodie, using her as a . . . as a loudspeaker."

In the dark Tom's eyes were huge. "How do you know that?"

"I know," Clay said.

Below them, the flashlights were moving away. Soon they were gone and Clay was glad. This was their business, it was private.

At half past three, in the ditch of the night, alice said: "Oh, Mummy, too bad! Fading roses, this garden's over." Then her tone brightened. "Will there be snow? We'll make a fort, we'll make a leaf, we'll make a bird, we'll make a bird, we'll make a hand, we'll make a blue one, we'll . . ." She trailed off, looking up at stars that turned on the night like a clock. The night was cold. They had bundled her up. Every breath she exhaled came out in white vapor. The bleeding had finally stopped. Jordan sat next to her, petting her left hand, the one that was already dead and waiting for the rest of her to catch up.

"Play the slinky one I like," she said. "The one by Hall and Oates."

At twenty to five, she said, "it's the loveliest dress ever." They were all gathered around her. Clay had said he thought she was going.

"What color, Alice?" Clay asked, not expecting an answer—but she did answer.

"Green."

"Where will you wear it?"

"The ladies come to the table," she said. Her hand still squeezed the sneaker, but more slowly now. The blood on the side of her face had dried to an enamel glaze. "The ladies come to the table, the ladies come to the table. Mr. Ricardi stays at his post and the ladies come to the table."

"That's right, dear," Tom said softly. "Mr. Ricardi stayed at his post, didn't he?"

"The ladies come to the table." Her remaining eye turned to Clay, and for the second time she spoke in that other voice. One he had heard coming from his own mouth. Only four words this time. '"Your son's with us."

"You lie," Clay whispered. His fists were clenched, and he had to restrain himself from striking the dying girl. "You bastard, you lie."

"The ladies come to the table and we all have tea," Alice said.

The first line of light had begun to show in the east. tom sat beside Clay, and put a tentative hand on his arm. "If they read minds," he said, "they could have gotten the fact that you have a son and you're worried to death about him as easily as you'd look something up on Google. That guy could be using Alice to fuck with you."

"I know that," Clay said. He knew something else: what she'd said in Harvard's voice was all too plausible. "You know what I keep thinking about?"

Tom shook his head.

"When he was little, three or four—back when Sharon and I still got along and we called him Johnny-Gee—he'd come running every time the phone rang. He'd yell 'Fo-fo-me-me?' It knocked us out. And if it was his nana or his PeePop, we'd say 'Fo-fo-you-you' and hand it to him. I can still remember how big the fucking thing looked in his little hands . . . and against the side of his face . . ."

"Clay, stop."

"And now . . . now . . ." He couldn't go on. And didn't have to.

"Come here, you guys!" Jordan called. His voice was agonized. "Hurry up!"

They went back to where Alice lay. She had come up off the ground in a locked convulsion, her spine a hard, quivering arc. Her remaining eye bulged in its socket; her lips pulled down at the corners. Then, suddenly, everything relaxed. She spoke a name that had no meaning for them– Henry—and squeezed the sneaker one final time. Then the fingers relaxed and it slipped free. There was a sigh and a final white cloud, very thin, from between her parted lips.

Jordan looked from Clay to Tom, then back to Clay again. "Is she—"

"Yes," Clay said.

Jordan burst into tears. Clay allowed Alice another few seconds to look at the paling stars, then used the heel of his hand to close her eye.

There was a farmhouse not far from the orchard. they found shovels in one of the sheds and buried her under an apple tree, with the little sneaker in her hand. It was, they agreed, what she would have wanted. At Jordan's request, Tom once more recited Psalm Forty, although this time he had difficulty finishing. They each told one thing they remembered about Alice. During this part of the impromptu service, a flock of phone-people—a small one—passed north of them. They were noticed but not bothered. This did not surprise Clay in the slightest. They were insane, not to be touched . . . as he was sure Gunner and Harold would learn to their sorrow.

They slept away most of the daylight hours in the farmhouse, then moved on to Kent Pond. Clay no longer really expected to find his son there, but he hadn't given up hope of finding word of Johnny, or perhaps Sharon. Just to know she was alive might lift a little of the sorrow he now felt, a feeling so heavy that it seemed to weigh him down like a cloak lined with lead.