Up Dublin Street at twilight, Gladys waits at windows, watching night unroll its carpet onto the floors of the house. She stopped the clock when she sent her girls, with them the plate she’d laid for their father who works nights at the hospital lot gathering tips. She’d baked the cornbread, buttered the rice, turned out the pinto beans before burning, though there are times when the shadow comes and she forgets. That hovering whiteface, white breath inside her breath, her heels in the icy stirrups where the nurse had placed them. She was young then and golden, eyes pale as the gray lake, hair smooth without lye, her nose keen enough. Now she walks only to church, though she’ll often look towards town. She’ll take company if the pastor stops. He holds her hand as if it were a sparrow, says: You must not name the devil. But these things do have a way of naming themselves.