It could be a man, who shows you that you're not alone, and helps you heal your perfect, holy body, who chases away your fear and doubt until the fever consumes you. It could be the empty ritual of church, in well-worn sayings and crazy-ass hats, letting the devil in the back door while you linger at the front. It could be a hedge-witch, just past the crossroads, taking you apart and putting you back together; or the return of your mother's lap, corncakes and bacon in the kitchen, turning you into a little girl again. It could be the beast inside a beautiful woman, whose rage suddenly expresses your own. It could be the drug that we call God, or V: whenever you arrive at a stopping place, you can stop and rest. But if you plan to stay there you will grow moss, and the cracks will get wider, and your foundation falls apart. The human mind and spirit were not meant to stop. They were meant to go, go, go, forever. When you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him. Because it's not the Buddha, it's another trick: the real one's just a mile on down the road. Forever and ever. And that's what Ruth is telling us: we don't ever bury anything, but we can let those things bury us if we're not careful. Grace is a wave that never breaks, fuck my legless grandmother, amen.
Sookie runs home, in screaming denial about one death, now two, and sits at the table. Lovely pink roses stand on the kitchen table, where she sits and listens to his voicemail message one last time. She doesn't leave a message. On the floor, from the door to the table, are the footprints of a very long journey: the dirt of a murder scene, tracked across the floor. She forgot to take her shoes off, like she normally does; there's mud everywhere on her beautiful kitchen floor. She knows what she has to do. This is her house, now.