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"Where?"

"The jug We uard theod of the crossroads, who controls passing between the living world and the world of the dead"

"Your son is in the jug?" I muttered She nodded

"That's not his not his skull, is it?" I asked nearly gulping in fear of her response

She shook her head

"It be the skull of an ancestor who guards and protects too"

"How did your son die?"

"His lungs go bad," she said putting her hand over her breast,

"How old was he?"

"Five"

"Five? How terrible I'm sorry"

She nodded

"I've got to do the floors upstairs now," she told me and closed the door

I watched her walk away and looked at the door to the holy rooavein that rooain, hoping to speak to Mommy It was still dead and the rain had turned into a steady downpour It beat against the s and on the roof now, sounding more like hail How even more dreary and dark the house itself appeared when it rained I wandered through it, looking at the other rooms, each of which was as drab as the one before, the furniture as worn as that in the living roo room