I clean up the pieces of doll and inspect the damage – crazing on the porcelain face and some chips to the ears and nose – but I am not equal to the task of fixing things, it seems. I wrap Boy up in a new swaddling instead, by way of holding him together. The body is more or less disintegrated and there is no evidence of a hole in its back, much less money tucked back there. This makes sense as I have made it all up based on a deep dive into Civil War dolls. I certainly have no recollection of a compartment in the back of Boy.
As I work, wafts of sealskin come off my hands and arms.
It is still raining, the lilac blossoms bending with the weight of water. The area has never seen so many consecutive days of rain. It shushes like a great universal pulse, this water surging and slowing, bi
