“I thought there was a baby back in 1971,” he said, keeping his voice down as if he were in the sanctuary.

“She died in the room five minutes after she was born, and we buried her under the crepe myrtle,” I said.

Mr.

Henderson looked down at his ledger and started writing my name on the top line.

“Then it’s just Ona Bradley, daughter, of Deer Park,” he read out loud.

The words were short enough to fit on a postcard.

He pushed the white carbon receipt across the dark desk to my side of the lamp.