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Lydia: In the shoulder!

Bristal: Allegedly.

Lydia: We know that part is true. You don’t have to say allegedly.

Bristal: Yeah, but maybe if you want to change your story later. I got you.

Lydia: First of all, I wouldn’t do that. Secondly, we’re airing this live.

Bristal: We’re live? I don’t think you told me that.

Lydia: I totally did.

Bristal: I’m checking my Etsy sales right now.

Lydia: Anyway, it has been a hectic couple of weeks. But we wanted to provide a follow-up to what you’ve likely been seeing, hearing, and reading in the national and state headlines.

Bristal: Consider this your local news blast. Also, I’m not pregnant.

Lydia: When Bristal and I chose to share the information that Dover’s dog had likely been fed the 1864 penny, we did not expect everyone to run with their metal detectors to the ODOT roadkill dumpsite.

Bristal: But seriously—props to you guys. It smells out there.

Lydia: After a couple of weeks of the not-so-exciting rediscovery of dog tags and collars, we would like to share that yesterday, little Cody Lytle did in fact uncover the lost Boggs family treasure.

Bristal: But before you go getting excited, listen to the next part.

Lydia: It turns out that Boggs’s understanding of coin values was a bit hazy. Many factors go into determining the worth of an old coin, including the alloy used, and who struck them.

Bristal: Long story short, the one Boggs had is going on eBay for about a buck right now.

Lydia: And Denise Halverson died for it.

Bristal: So there you have it, folks. What’s a girl’s life worth? About a buck.

Lydia: But it’s going to cost all of us so much more.

Bristal: Dude, can you take me to Hobby Lobby after this?

Lydia: Uh, sure. Why?

Bristal: Because I need to buy stuff to make, like, five thousand patches.

Forty-Three

The prison didn’t issue Dad the same gray sweatpants and navy-blue T-shirt that Dover had when Bristal and I met with him. Dad is wearing orange, his bad shoulder bandaged and in a sling. He looks like a criminal. Which . . . I guess he is.

“Hi, Dad,” I say. My voice gets stuck halfway, the familiar words not tripping off my tongue the way they’re supposed to. This is a phrase for at home, for being shouted up the staircase or from the front porch as his headlights sweep the front yard when he gets back from work. It’s something I should be yelling from the firepit, welcoming him to join Mom and me. These aren’t words for a prison.

But that’s where we are, and it’s because of me—and I have things to say.

“Hey, Lydia,” Dad says, and somehow he says it just right, as if he’s not wearing orange, as if we aren’t in jail, as if we are just a father and daughter having a chat.

“How’s your mom?” he asks.

It’s kind of him to ask, and not just for her sake. I can answer this, can put together the words, even if they aren’t easy to say, or for him to hear.

“She’s hurting,” I tell him.