Goodie, dressed in borrowed black, stood over the grave that Castor and Pol had dug. She had picked a hill with a single persimmon tree, so that the sun would shine on it every day. Avarice perched on her shoulder, silent and refusing to be separated from her. Goodie stared down into the ground at Armie’s body, the fever and rot having robbed him of his breath and color. She did not cry. The many Cherokee women of Chagee stood with her and held her, but their warmth and life was not felt, for her heart was cracked and dying.