Luna returns to a small chapel in Harlow, Kentucky, where a dry creek bed behind the church has started to pulse with sound — a low, rhythmic hum like a heartbeat. The priest, Father Callahan, claims it's the Lord's breath moving through the earth. Luna hears something else in the vibration: a pattern, almost language. What she finds at the bottom of the creek, wedged between two slabs of limestone, is a statue of Saint Luke that no one placed there. The face is worn smooth, the hands open. But at night, the water in the creek rises without rain, and the statue's eyes glisten like they're wet. Luna kneels beside it and listens to the hum form words she cannot unhear.