So he came home to Mulberry Creek, set up a trailer behind the Cherokee Stop-N-Go, and hung a hand-painted sign: The first patient was old Man Crutcher, who’d been complaining of a "funny taste in his mouth" for three years. Three different clinics had given him antacids.

And for God’s sake, turn around before you hear him say:

He claimed the shock to the sciatic nerve triggered a reflexive honesty in the body’s pain pathways. The medical board called it "assault with a medical degree." They revoked his license in 2007.

“Bend over. This is for your own good.”

Wren opened her mouth. And sang. A single, perfect, low B-flat that rattled the jars of dried sage on the shelf. Then she whispered: “The moth knows.”