Six-Thirty slips into the cemetery, lays purloined daffodils on Calvin Evans’s grave, and reflects on Elizabeth’s effort to teach him words beyond commands. He recalls their word lessons with children’s books and how he now tries to communicate both with Calvin through the earth and with the unborn “Creature” in Elizabeth’s belly, who sometimes responds.

About three months after Calvin’s death, Six-Thirty finds Elizabeth in the kitchen at 2 a.m., sledgehammer in hand. She demolishes the cupboards and, undeterred by skepticism at the lumberyard, begins rebuilding the space as a laboratory. While constructing the lab, Elizabeth starts charging Hastings chemists—beginning with Dr. Boryweitz—for solving their problems, adding surcharges for condescension, Calvin references, and pregnancy comments. She continues word lessons with Six-Thirty as they work.

Four months later, the kitchen is a functioning lab: shelves stocked with improvised and professional equipment, stainless-steel counters, double sinks labeled for waste and water, Bunsen burners, and a fume hood Six-Thirty is trained to operate. Despite progress, Six-Thirty worries about Elizabeth’s sleeplessness, obsessive work, erging, and vacant stares, and he appeals at Calvin’s grave for help.

When the hostile groundskeeper aims a rifle at him, Six-Thirty charges, knocking the man down; the bullet chips Calvin’s tombstone. Choosing restraint, Six-Thirty stanches the man’s bleeding and barks for help. A reporter recognizes him, photographs the scene, returns him home, and writes a story labeling the dog a hero. The cemetery lifts its dog ban, replaces the groundskeeper, and promises a new marker. Viewing the photograph of the chipped epitaph, Elizabeth reads “Your days are nu,” which revives Calvin’s mantra—Every day. New—signaling a renewed resolve within her grief.