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forward. It was watching the smoke rising up from the valley. It didn’t even move when Billy jumped onto the flatbed and set the springs rocking, just kept its eyes on the distant fire, its tongue lolling wetly from its mouth.
    The smoke filled almost a third of the sky now and continued to spread like a black veil being slowly drawn across the day. Vehicles and people were starting to congregate by the billboard at the edge of town, black dots against the orange roadside dust. A few weeks ago Jim would have been right at the center of it, organizing the effort, leading the charge to save the town, risking his life, if that’s what it took. And in the end, that’s exactly what it had taken.
    Holly heard boots hurry up the hill then stop a few feet short of where she was standing. “I could drop you back home,” he said, talking to his feet rather than to her. “I’ll come back before sundown to finish up here, I promise.”
    â€œGive me the shovel, Billy.”
    He held the shovel up and examined the blade. It looked new, the polished-steel surface catching the sun as he turned it.
    â€œIf you don’t give me the damn thing, I’ll bury my husband using my bare hands.”
    He shook his head like he was disappointed or maybe just defeated. “Don’t feel right,” he said. Then he flipped the shovel over and jabbed it into the dirt like a spear. “Just leave it around here someplace,” he said, turning away and hurrying down the hill. “I’ll fetch it later.”
    Holly waited until the noise of his engine faded, allowing the softer sounds of nature and the empty cemetery to creep back in. She stood for a long time, listening to the cord slapping against the flagpole by the entrance, the Arizona state flag fluttering at half-mast, the wind humming in the power lines that looped away down the hill. She wondered how many widows had stood here like her and listened to these same lonely sounds.
    â€œWell, here we are, Jimbo,” she whispered to the wind. “Alone at last.”
    The last time they’d been up here together was for a photo op about two or three months previously. They had not been alone back then, there had been a handful of other people—press, photographers. She had stood here by his side, framed by the grave markers with the town spread out below them while he outlined his plans for its future, not realizing he wouldn’t be around to see it.
    She walked over to a mound of dirt set to one side of the grave. She grabbed the edge of the stone-colored sheet of canvas covering it and started dragging it off, stumbling as her heels sank into the ground and her tailored dress restricted the movement of her legs. She had bought it for the investiture, a little black number designed to beclassy but not too showy so it wouldn’t draw attention away from her handsome husband, the real star of the show. It was the only black dress she owned.
    She stumbled again and nearly fell, the tight dress making it hard to keep her balance.
    â€œSHIT!” she shouted into the silence. “SHIT FUCKING SHIT!”
    She kicked her shoes off, sending her heels sailing away through the air. One skittered to a rest against the sword cluster of an agave plant, the other bounced off a painted board that marked the final resting place of one J. J. James, died of sweats, 1882 .
    She grabbed the hem of her dress on either side of the seam and wrenched it apart with a loud rip. She was never going to wear it again; no amount of dressing it up with a new scarf or belt was ever going to accessorize away this memory. She gave it another yank and it tore all the way up to her thigh. Then she planted her bare feet wide apart and felt the heat of the earth beneath them. It felt good to be free of the constricting dress and the heels. She felt more like herself. She grabbed the shovel and stabbed the blade into the pile of dirt, the muscles in her arms and