Eleanor reached over and squeezed his hand. Her grip was bony but fierce.
On the third day, Leo walked to the south field. The scarecrow lay in the dirt, its flannel rotting, its straw hat crushed. He knelt down. He could repair it. He could prop it back up, a wooden soldier for a lie.
"I used to tell people you were just a tomboy," she said quietly. "Then I told myself you were just late to bloom. Then I told myself if I didn't say the word, it wouldn't be real."