The driver changes lanes. The sea and the sky murmur that the horror is everywhere. Burial grounds might be released, say, the island returned to its proper name. She fantasizes an engulfing of denials and madnesses, imagines a molten earth into which evil might sink outstretched the way you can fall back into a sea. Fall back in the shape of a cross.
Help is, as ever, too long in coming.
It is defeated by the driver's untimely death. Beaten by thieves who moved him, robbed him, robbed her own ragdoll brother tossed at the van's back door. No grove of white crosses flourishes beside that road to mark the death spot either. She has peered often into the southern scrub wondering just whose would go just where. Now, listening, she is reminded of the presumption of white crosses and likens it to the presumption of those who rob the dead.