She could barely bring herself to look at the cave, let alone breathe its air. Its cold limestone jaws, frozen open, perpetually dripped water. She had never seen anyone in the cave, only the things they left behind, near the entrance: candles, coins, clay trinkets, fragrant half-burned bundles of grass, sometimes still smoking. The Indians came there, trespassing on Father’s land, to talk to their dead ancestors. And these sad offerings, cheap even to an eight-year-old’s eye, were the presents left for the ghosts. Once, Evie had been compelled, had been feverish enough with want, to try to take something from the cave: a baby doll set back beyond the fire ring. Dressed like a miniature Indian, the doll was made from an eaten corncob with the husk pulled down into a painted skirt. Its burned silk clung to the top to mimic black Indian hair. Clutching a long stick, trying to snag the doll by the hair, Evie inched close enough to feel the cold cave breath leaking from a small hole, like a throat, in the back.
