It was cold and still and the night sky was so clear, Ginger could see the Milky Way churning slowly above her. She climbed into her wretched truck, the smell of vomit hiding just under the veil of cold air, waiting to be found by the warmth of the heater—olly, olly oxen free. Ginger really had no wish to seek the vomit but it came free without asking, so as she turned onto 81 she dug through her bag and found her perfume. She sprayed it around liberally. There was no new snow and the roads were clear. As she approached Oak Flat, she held her breath, tiptoeing past Samuel and Jacob Esch and any further weirdness that might pop out of the dark trees on this winding road in West Virginia. Grace had it that she pulled into the empty parking lot of Franklin District Community Hospital with no unexpected passengers, so she parked her car in the employee parking lot and hiked over the snow to the emergency room. Reality still had not found its anchor and Ginger’s mind was still sloshing around like sloosh in a hot pan, but somehow the familiar face of Margery T., RN, unlocking the glass door was settling.
