White string dangled from its side. Hickory, I figured, had got resourceful. I cleared my throat. “I made you some tea, too,” Hickory said. “It tastes like ca-ca,” Dinky said, so strange, his face still wet with tears. “That,” Hickory said, “was supposed to be a surprise.” I forced a yawn and then a smile, and took the teabag from my mug. On the end of the string was something like a bandage. “What the hell?” Hickory’s mouth was a tight blue heart. “It’s my secret brew.” “Jesus,” Dinky said. “If you really want to know,” Hickory said, “it comes from a jam jar.” “A jam jar.” “Like the thing that keeps what you put on your toast?” I looked again at the so-called teabag. “No toast I’ve ever had.” “Yeah?” I studied the thing. The image of a jam jar with a big fly’s wings bumped through my head. Then I remembered it, that scene from a few years back, with Lucille. “Is this what I think it is?” “You can think it’s whatever you want, but it came from a jam jar.”
