He set skillets now on the stove, a pot of water to boil potatoes. Sunlight slanted through the windows. The Dutch girl wandered in, rings beneath her eyes. She was still draped in the cotton blanket she’d worn the night before.

Good morning, Kevin said.

She shrugged and plopped herself on one of the stools beside the counter.

What makes it so good? she asked.

Kevin ignored the question. He was scrubbing potatoes at the sink.

Did you sleep last night?

I slept.

On the couch?

The chair.

Is your room okay?

She yawned and laid a hand over her mouth. The blanket slipped from her back and exposed a bare shoulder; she was wearing a sleeveless T. There was some kind of tattoo on her left biceps.

The room’s fine, she said, it’s my brother who’s a drag.

I’m sorry, he replied.

Yeah. So am I.

She planted her elbows on the table, a fist on each cheek, and watched Kevin.

It made him a bit uneasy. Teenage girls as a rule made him tense. He’d spent so little time around them that they seemed an entirely different species. This one, with the dyed hair and the eyebrow ring, seemed particularly farouche.

He pointed with the scrub brush to her arm.

What’s the tattoo? he asked.

She pulled down the blanket. He wasn’t sure if he was seeing correctly.

Groene eieren met ham, she said.

He peered closer at her white shoulder.

Green eggs and ham, she translated.

Oh. You’re a fan of Dr. Seuss?

She pushed out her lips.

Not especially, she shrugged. I thought it was cool.

I see.

He went back to the potatoes.

Can I ask you something? she said. Do you like living here?

In this house?

On this island. Doesn’t it get boring?

A little. Yes. I like boring.

I think I’d go nuts, she said.

You very well might.

He lit the stove under a skillet and knifed a large gob of butter into the pan.

She lifted her face off her fists.

Can I do something? she asked.

Like?

Help, she said.

It’s okay. He shook his head.

No, really. I want to.

She stood and threw the blanket over her left shoulder like a serape. He looked around at the scrubbed potatoes, the bag of onions, the eggs.

Well, if you really…

Yes. She nodded.

Well…potatoes or onions, pick your poison.

Hmmm. Onions, she decided.

Kevin raised an eyebrow. Ambitious, he said.

He walked around the counter, set a Lucite cutting board in front of her, and handed her a chef’s knife by the handle.

It’s very sharp, he warned. So be careful.

I’m not an idiot, she scowled.

He placed five large yellow onions on the cutting board.

Okay, medium-size pieces, please.

What are we making? she asked.

Home fries.