Terry remembers the other thing, and asks Sam why he was running through the woods naked this morning. "It looked an awful lot like you. Except you wear clothes..." He has these little sparking gaps in him, where he's having a conversation and then it goes somewhere else, like there's a connection between the sparking gap and his open mouth. It's disconcerting and sad. Terry squeezes his eyes shut and looks down. "Maybe I'm seein' things again. Except usually when I see people who ain't there, it's..." Sam knows: "It's the insurgents." Terry says, though, that this one didn't look that way, and Sam makes a choice. "But you said he was running, though, huh? Plenty of cover in the trees. How could you tell for sure? ...I believe you saw what you saw, I just don't know why anyone would run naked through the woods in broad daylight..." Terry laughs and says he's probably right, and then his face changes again. "Shit I hate being this way, Sam." And Sam is guilty then, but just slightly less than he is afraid, so he claps Terry on the shoulder and takes him inside: "We're a long way from Fallujah."

Sookie sits on Gran's porch in Gran's blanket -- her porch now, her blanket -- and watches the rain come down. Any other night he'd be coming here, she'd be going there. A week ago she didn't even know what it felt like. Now the night smells like him. She lights a candle in the kitchen, and makes a bouquet. This is a funeral. Roses, is that foxglove? I'm sure it means something but I don't know flowers on sight. She puts the candle in the window, to call him home. She heads out.

In the graveyard it's not raining anymore. She's wearing a yellow dress and no shoes; the bouquet for him is a riot of color. She kneels and clears away the rest of the leaves of ivy from his tombstone. "BELOVED HUSBAND - BRAVE SOLDIER." He died for neither, this time. She weeps and says goodbye: Another one gone. She takes it in, all alone. Again. No brother, no sister. No Bill. Just the rest of a life, back to being a monster, crazy Sookie, touched by grave dirt. She could be a fangbanger as long as he was there, making it worthwhile. Now she has nothing, even less than she had before he came. She'll go home to an empty house, and live there all her life, and no man will ever quiet the voices again. It was better before she met him, before she knew what it could be like, what it felt like to be free. It was better to live only part of a life, if the alternative is having parts of it ripped away. Without him, none of it was worth it. She's dirty after all.