music, instrumental and twangy.


    ourmoney you got in your little purse. You’ll go get our supplies.”


    veryfamiliar, now—then I’d played it before. Back when I was a kid, but still. I remembered we had to buy stuff like food and clothes, and some animals to pull the wagon.


    Music.


    1848 Editioncaught my eye. I pointed. “Is that the year?” I asked faintly.


    Whyis this happening? What did I do to deserve this?”


    why? To what end? Andhow?


    That’s okay. The answer, I felt, was another Conestoga. I went back to the guy selling wagons, and he claimed all he had was a large or small farm wagon.


    Pearl, I read.A greenhorn, leaving Independence in May, 1848.Formerly a Prostitute…


    What??


    Prostitute. The pen wouldn’t mark. In fact, my previous occupation refused to be altered in any way. I even tried tearing out the page, to no avail. It was like the page itself had been forged of titanium. Maybe fire would—


    stillhadn’t heard speak.


    Ah, well.I didn’t get any rapist/criminal vibes from him, and that would have to be enough.


    morevoluminous.


    doneto me?


    thiswas, and I suspected I’d have to see it through to its end. “I’m ready to go.”