1983. Olive, Montana. Elizabeth Harris, one of the last children to grow up in a town that would soon fade from existence except as a name on a map. She was playing in a field near her house when she came across a deep hole she had never seen before. Peering into the hole she saw at the bottom a small, frail woman. The woman’s face was covered in blood, and her eyes were looking back up at Elizabeth. The woman began to sing, in a sweet, high voice. “O, martyrs,” she sang. “O, soldiers of a lower cause.” Elizabeth turned and ran. She would not put together until later that evening, but
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