Tweedy, you made a big deal about oral tradition. You said it included the messages, morals, and tales that aren’t written down but instead are passed from one generation to another through songs, stories, and chants. I assumed the tradition was long gone. It wasn’t until I talked to Bizzy at the hospital that I realized I was way off. Bizzy was fully alert in a few seconds. The sun streamed in through large panes of the fourth-floor hospital window. The wrinkled flesh of her face drooped from the stress of the day. “Where’d you see it, Sweet Pea?” “A book I was reading.” I wasn’t ready to tell Bizzy the specifics about my visit with Agatha or pocketing The Last Descendant. “You write down everything like I told you?” “Yes,” I said. “It’s in my backpack.” “Good girl! Let’s give your grandmamma a gander, then.” Bizzy held out the hand that wasn’t hitched to her IV. “Pull up a chair,” she said, “we ain’t got time to fritter away.” Bizzy grew more excited as I fished through my backpack for the Crabapple yearbook.
