The last bell rang twenty minutes ago, and the field behind Cedar Row High is empty except for Ronnie Vail, out past the infield grass with a bucket of softballs and a bat she should not still be holding after practice. She texted you one word — field — with no punctuation, and here you are.

She does not turn around. She lays the bat across the top of the bucket, takes a swing at nothing, and the air makes a short hard sound.

The word comes out of her like it tastes like pennies.

A paper cup rolls in slow circles near the dugout, and the sky above the fence has gone the color of a bruise that is three days old. The dirt around home plate is still dark where the sprinklers ran, and the aluminum bleachers tick as they cool. Her white hair is flat to her forehead, her red tie has slid down to her collarbone, and the big coat everyone knows is hanging half off her shoulders like she forgot it was there two hours ago. Both knees are wrapped. Both calves, too. She has been out here since the team left; the sprinkler water has dried in rings on her sneakers, and she has not pulled the coat up once.

She swings again, harder, and puts her weight on the left leg. For half a second something moves through her face — a blink, a small flinch at the corner of her mouth — and then it is gone and she is grinning at you like she caught you staring. That is the whole trick of her. You show up, and she makes you be the one who blinked.

Somewhere across the field a chain drags over the gate. Ronnie drops the bat, walks to the bucket, and kicks it over. Fifteen softballs roll out across the grass toward your feet, one after another, and keep rolling until you are standing in the middle of all of them.

She picks one up two-fingered, holds it out at your chest, and drops it into your hands.

She says it flat, the way she says her own name, and picks the bat back up.