She laughs. Her island is a refuge for wild things. Wild things and sick ones, waiting.
"I mean, this is the only thing that makes any sense to me. Sometimes I think that people like us, we were just supposed to be alone."
Sarah was like James Skinner. Supposed to be alone.
"That's not true," she says, and kisses him. Is it going backwards? It feels like going home.
Stephen waits until the church bell tolls, and heads inside. The service for Rachel "Bullet" Olmstead is not a place he wanted to be; yesterday he couldn't have imagined it. Yesterday he was as drunk as he plans to be now. The picture up front is just hideous, all gawky teen braces and hair like a dandelion.
When Danette Leeds sits down beside him, alone in the pews, he is horrified. But she doesn't tremble; she isn't caught in the Maybes. Part of her waits to catch up, but her body knows the truth, and she's at rest. Joe Mills was a thousand, million years ago. They wonder how it is, that they should be meeting here.
"She helped me with things," he tries to explain. "We were sort of friends."
Danette knows why the hideous picture is displayed so proudly, even if Stephen doesn't.
"That's the way her folks want to remember her: The way they imagined her to be, not the way she was."
He doesn't understand this part either. The pieces we retrieve.
Danette told Bullet the story, too: How she'd close her eyes and count to five, and Kallie would still be there, when she opened them again. Wide-eyed, giggling. She closes her eyes, and opens them.
"She took care of your daughter. Tried to protect her as best she could. She was like a little pitbull. She was just a little kid. They all were."
Bullet is a piece he can retrieve for her. They can grieve for Bullet, who went past the Maybes in a taxicab trunk in a storage park. Danette weeps. It's not Kallie's funeral but it's another part of her, gone. It's not Danette's sobs but the Olmsteads', up front, that sends his body out the door. Mourning something they gave away, something half as brave and nothing as beautiful as what was lost.
Lyric sits in the front row, still invisible. Pulling together pieces of memory. Of all the girls, escaped alone to tell the tale.
James surprises her, at the kitchen sink, but she interrupts him. His confession, his warning.