Despondently etching out a rough patch the modern-day Johnny and June had endured, Shires sang as though underwater. Shires picks through the wreckage by hand: there’s the serrated edge of abandonment, the brittle filament of betrayal, and the suffocating fog of loss. Shires’ fiddle is the mouthpiece here, her bow dragging against the strings so they groan. At the chorus, Shires’ voice rises from the ashes of each verse—delicate plumes that write the space between who she was and who she might become, though the calligraphy evaporates before either story is complete. “‘Cover me up,’ nothing’s ever enough,” she sings, her voice like a loaded pistol with one in the chamber as the piano turns accusatory.