Only when the roar of Gabe’s motorcycle fades out of earshot do I turn back to my parents’ graves. One of the gravediggers stops piling soil on top of my mother. He leans his weight against the handle of his shovel and stares up at me, warily. As I pass, I slap a brick of notes against his muddy chest. “Dig her up,” I growl. “My mama doesn’t belong here.”
