Virginia and I walk side by side until we pause next to a silver car with a bundle of unburned sage hanging from its rearview mirror. We get inside, and the space is fragrant and comforting. Aromatherapy, I think. We occasionally use it with our clients. “My dad’s old car,” she says when she notices me staring at the sage. “And I hope you don’t mind, but I technically don’t have a license. But don’t worry.” She waves her hand. “I’m an excellent driver.” I remember what life was like before I got my license, and it definitely involved breaking some permit laws. Otherwise I would have been dependent on my dad or Deacon to drive me everywhere. “Just don’t kill us,” I tell her with a smile, although I quickly tense at my unfortunate choice of words. Virginia pretends not to hear. I take a moment to glance around at Arthur Pritchard’s car, hoping to find some huge clue about my past, which of course is not there. Virginia slips a CD into the stereo. The music that comes out of the speakers is haunting, itchy.
