Thomas and I had worked with Dad the most. Marie wasn’t the outdoor type, and Ellen had been too small. I wondered if our machines were still in the Bronx, or whether the cousin had sold them. They belonged to us. I knew where each of them had been bought, which lawns we’d cut with which specific lawn mower. I knew how to clean them and how to get them on and off the truck. My throat tightened. I breathed deeply again—gas, cuttings, summer heat. The past. Thomas still had not come home. Last summer he’d gone door to door, asking to borrow a lawn mower. Wilson just had to take his dad’s keys and throw their machine in the trunk. What were we going to tell Mom? I sat outside until I saw the first lightning bug.

Peter answered the door at the Bouchers’ that night. “Libby!” he shouted, and grabbed my hand, pulling me in across the threshold.

“Hey, Mr. Peter Rabbit, how’s the gangster-rabbit life? You eating lots of stolen cabbage and carrots?”

Peter laughed and ran around the kitchen. “Bang, bang. This is a holdup. Give me all your lettuce!”

“Hi, Libby,” Mrs. Boucher said, coming into the kitchen as she fastened an earring. The scent of lemons drifted around her.

“Hi, Mrs. Boucher”—and just as I said it, I saw the brown towel set we’d used the week before, folded on the countertop. I had put them in Mrs. Boucher’s washing machine after Ellen and Wilson left but had never taken them out. I looked at the towels, the heat flushing my face, and then at Mrs. Boucher, who was looking at me.

“Was everything okay last week, Libby? I meant to ask you.”

I was about to make up a story about knocking a cup of coffee over and getting brown towels so it wouldn’t stain the kitchen rag, but I knew it would sound hollow.

“Hold ’em up, Libby,” Peter shouted. I put up my hands as if to give in. I would tell her.

“Last Friday, Ellen had an accident, and she came here. I am really sorry. I should have told you. I’ve never had anyone in the house before when you weren’t here.” I could hear the waver in my voice.