Joan thinks she's getting good at this. She's always had vivid dreams, always been able to lead them to an extent-- Hap calls this lucid dreaming-- and so she seeks out the dead while she sleeps. She focuses while she's asleep, and is able to remember more and more of her dreams, report them back faithfully, without embellishment. It feels like a puzzle, like developing a skill. It feels like the only worthwhile in this uncracked eggshell tightness Hap insists is life.

That, and talking to Hap. She knows he has her here against her will, she knows, but that doesn't make him any less vital, interesting, dynamic. He's the center of the universe, and they both know it.

When he speaks, she no longer pretends she isn't listening. "Yeah," she says. "They talk about her like she was a martyr. Fully canonized, on the spot, three miracles and all."

She rolls her eyes. Saint Prairie sounds insipidly boring to Joan, someone who flinches from gentleness on instinct.