I didn’t see Sher until much later. There was music at the edge of the bonfire: guitarists, singers, a fiddle player, a mandolin, someone with a clarinet, and a shoal of drummers who sounded as if they’d played together in the womb. Someone offered me finger cymbals, but I declined. At the edge of the light, people were dancing.

On the opposite side of the hodgepodge circle of musicians and audience, I saw Kris, the woman from the beet field. She sat on the grass with her arm around another woman. They were both smiling, alternately at the musicians and at each other; they whispered in each other’s ears; they laid their heads on each other’s shoulders. The other woman kissed Kris on the cheek, halfway between her cheekbone and her jaw. Josh had removed the stitches from the inside of my mouth just a few days ago, in about that spot.

I stood up abruptly and walked into the dark. I ended up on the other side of the big central tree, leaning against it, staring up into the branches. The candle lanterns hanging there had almost all gone out. I concentrated on my breathing, on letting my chest rise and fall, on seeing if I could take in exactly the same volume of air each time. The day and everything in it seemed to have conspired against my composure. But it had survived, and with a little attention would continue to do so. This had been a bit of testing for real life, that was all.

“It’s all right,” said Sher, beside me, in a wrung voice I’d never heard from her before. “Nobody wants you to hurt. It just seemed so strange — you were so different. But if you have to shut us all out or break… then shut us out.”

I put my hands over my face for a moment. Then I let them drop. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I heard her breath run unevenly into her lungs. “It doesn’t matter. Never mind.”

The farmhouse was close, but I would have found it anyway. This body I was leasing had always had good night vision. I closed the door of my room behind me, folded the borrowed clothes, and went, eventually, to sleep.

The next day I hunted through the fields until I found Kris, and asked her to put me to work. She was in one of the smaller garden plots this time, a long straight stretch between the dairy barn and the horse paddock.

She got up off her knees and banged her hands together to get the dirt off her gloves. “Sure. What are you good at?”

“Nothing,” I said. It was a useful word lately. “I’ll have to be trained.”

Kris grinned and waved at the rows. “Then you’re doomed to learn to weed. C’mere.” She pointed. “That’s an onion. Don’t pull it out. Anything that doesn’t look like that — see here, and here — is a weed. In this row, anyway. You’re trained. Off you go.”