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Immy had never forgotten the terror she’d felt in the closet.
    But Amy JoBeth, the poor woman, was in distress. Immy had to do something.
    She slowed her breathing, but not her heart, and started down the steps, leaving the door open for light and quick escape. A loose spider web floated past her face and she batted it away. Amy JoBeth lay curled up on a mattress under a heap of blankets. It was a degree or two cooler under the ground, but the small enclosure was still sweltering.
    “Oh my god, this is creepy. And dark. What are you doing here? Are you all right?”
    No reply.
    Immy squatted on the floor beside the mattress and put her hand on Amy JoBeth’s forehead. She was drenched in sweat, but didn’t seem feverish.
    “I should have locked the door,” muttered Amy JoBeth, turning her back to Immy.
    “But what in the hell are you doing down here? The sky is clear. There’s no tornado coming. The breeze isn’t even very strong today.” Immy’s hands prickled from her fear of the closed in space.
    “I don’t care ’bout the weather.” Amy JoBeth’s words slurred slightly. Was she drunk? “Don’t care ’bout nothin’ anymore.”
    Was this the same bright, bustling woman who had, only a few hours ago, sold her a pig? Immy’s scalp prickled to match her palms “C’mon, Amy JoBeth. Tell me what’s the matter. Maybe I can help.”
    The air in the shelter was warm and still, with a slight smell of dampness. A portable toilet stood in the corner, beyond the mattress. The shelter was a prefab affair, unlike some of the homemade ones in Saltlick. It had built in shelves, a ceiling light and a ventilation turbine. The light wasn’t on, though. The white walls would be black with the hatch closed. Amy JoBeth must have been huddling here in inky darkness.
    “Can you resurrect Gretchen?” Amy JoBeth sat up and flung off the covers. “Some son of a bitch shot her. Some drunk bastard. Shot my pig! My Gretchen!” Her face crumpled and her tears streamed. “I knew I shouldn’t’ve let those filthy Buckets take her. They let her get out, I know they did. It’s their fault.”
    “Well, and the fault of the drunk hunter.”
    “Yes! It’s everyone’s fault. I wish they were all dead!” Amy JoBeth’s fists clenched the blanket so tightly her knuckles whitened.
    “Now how would that help anything?”
    “It would even the score, I reckon. But it’s mostly my own fault because I let someone buy her. How could I? How could I sell my baby? I let Tinnie talk me into it. I should be shot. Right after Rusty and Tinnie and the drunk asshole who shot her.” She grabbed the top blanket and wiped her tears from her cheeks, then blew her nose.
    Her grief filled the tiny space. Immy wanted to flee up the stairs so she could breathe more easily. “Can I get you to come out of here?”
    “No, you can’t. Go away.” Shooting a sharp look at Immy, she said, “And you take care of that baby pig I just sold you.”
    “Oh, we will. He has a sturdy pen. And we’ll probably keep him in the house most of the time.”
    “Yes, that would be good.” Her crying had stopped.
    “We’ve already taken him to Dr. Fox and gotten him all fixed up.”
    Amy JoBeth gazed at Immy for a moment. “You’re a good person, Immy. You’re kinda flighty, but Marshmallow will be okay with you and Drew. And Hortense. Mom said you’re Hortense’s daughter. She’s been a good friend to Mom. He’ll be all right.”
    “Oh yes! He will be.” Now that Amy JoBeth had stopped crying maybe she could be reasoned with. “So, are you hungry?” That usually worked as a good distraction in dealing with her mother and with Drew. Worked well on Ralph, too.
    Amy JoBeth set up a loud wail. “How can I eat? How can I go on?”
    “Um, can I bring you some brownies?”
    Silence. “Hortense’s brownies? Mom’s told me about them.”
    Immy nodded. “She made some this afternoon.” If Ralph ate them all, maybe Mother can make some more, she