She imagines tucking her daughter into bed before grabbing the knife. She imagines kissing her head, smelling her shampoo, saying a prayer. She wishes her daughter could be healthy, happy, safe, strong, alive. But her daughter isn’t those things, and the truth is sharp. Still, she prays, and then she slices open the night sky. Like coins from a purse, several bright stars fall around her. She will leave these at Josie’s grave—wishes scavenged through sacrifice. Next, she cuts through tight dirt, ages of rock, time itself. Deep below, twisting rivers of turgid grief create a vast map. At home here, she follows one branch, remembering Josie’s bright twinkle. Walking, remembering Josie’s everything, she begins to carve her own river.