A severed hand rests in Lydia’s right palm, wherever she goes, and even she doesn’t know why. It was tucked inside a photo album, pressed, laminated, sealed, a memento or curiosity—but Lydia didn’t think it belonged there, so she carried it to her grave—almost. The casket was still slightly open when they lowered her down. A few drops of rain brought the hand to life, and everyone watched, with their breath held tightly in their chest, as that hand dragged itself to the gravesite of a certain Lisa Purdy, “My loving wife, whose hand I’ll hold for eternity.”