In the hospital where they brought him, the governor, his wife, both wives, the pristine bullet, g-men: on a floor wedded with wails of new lungs: one baby was born too soon or too late. Something was dead. Someone said Jackie walked past her room, but it wasn't true. Just something to take her mind off it. Someone said she was lucky to be alive, but no one knew who they meant, the one with the failed womb, dead son, or the one riding next to a bullet, blood on her dress and pink in her hair.