1889

Arango opens the door to the baby’s room.  A thin layer of sand covers the floor.  It covers the crib.  A mural grows from the nearest wall like a vine, stretching into the dark room.

“Your mother,” Arango whispers.  “Before you were born.”

Sunday’s candle follows the narrative — a woman in the window of a log cabin — a handsome man in a silver saddle — a dark shadow with a black hat and scarf — lovers entwined — the shadow shrinking before a glowing sunburst — a map of the trail south — the smiling man and woman holding hands, the glow now coming from the woman’s belly…

The chalk paintings abruptly halt.  Sunday knows why.  She imagines the pictures.  The woman dead — the crib empty — the shadow escaping with the baby into the desert.

Arango quietly weeps.  Sunday takes his hand.  She gives him some chalk.

The Story So Far