"I can't believe I spent four hundred dollars to watch you drown a damn possum," Tara says, having gotten control of herself enough that she can turn back into a bitch. "You better not have done anything bad to my Momma." Lettie Mae stands there, vacant for a moment, feeling around for it: the pain, the worry, the care. Out of me and into him. What to do with all that recovered space? It's for people who are weak but still have faith: sing the night that made you. "Is my demon gone forever?" Jeanette says it is. "You belong to yourself now." You have been reminded that you always did.

"But we're gonna have to do something about your daughter," Miss Jeanette says, putting those Hermit eyes on her like lanterns. "You ain't gonna do nothing for me," Tara says under the moon. "Your demon isn't the same kind as your mother's, but it's definitely living in you." Tara snorts and flies off the handle, proving her right: "Now you think I got a motherfucking demon? Bitch, you as fucked up as your bus." Jeanette points him out, with her cane: "That's that demon talking right now. And deep down inside, you know it's true..." She is older than Lettie Mae; she is younger than Tara. Tara assures her that she neither wants nor needs the witch-woman's help, and couldn't afford it anyhow. "Do you have many friends? Do you have trouble keeping a job? You have your own place?" She's coming closer, on her crooked legs, leaning on her crooked stick. Tara won't meet her eyes. "You have a boyfriend? How long have you ever been with the same man?" Tara finally looks up; she is stuck in the hedge-witch's eyes. "Mm-hm," the crone says, knowing better: she retreats into the forest, away at last. "Find me when you're ready." Under the silver full moon, the maiden leads her mother by the hand, back home.

Sookie, finally off work, lets herself into his house. The electric lights are on, and dead candles sit with dripped wax on top of books. She calls his name and visits the hidey-hole, clicking the panel open and lifting the trapdoor: it's empty. It is only dust, and books, and the cold ground. She creeps through the house, leaving it open and unsecured, and looks down at the blankets by the fire: the red velvet where she became new. It's too soon for things to change; she sits on a couch, beside the bed they made. Not on it, because she is alone. And she waits.

Morning comes and Royce's goons make napalm, toss bottles through the windows of Malcolm's nest. The screams begin, loud and horrible, as they lie there, pinned to the cold ground, unable to move or lift themselves from danger. And all the worry, and care, and sadness of Bon Temps flows out of them, and into the house that Malcolm bought.