This is the first time she’s been allowed to feed Kitsune, from a bottle of milk she’s been taught to warm, and did warm, in a pot of water on the stove, after it arrived overnight from one of the many, many women who, learning of Maureen’s death, offered their milk online to him. Kitsune is in her lap, her little lips trying to draw food from the space between them. Padgett, with the Vic watching, waves down at the baby. Kitsune frowns, and Padgett does not blame her. To whom does a baby need to wave? Acquaintances, people in neighboring boats? Why teach waving to a creature constantly surprised by its own hands? She should go out to the backyard orchard, where a bottle of rye is stashed in a bag in a wheelbarrow, and teach the mute plum trees how to sign their names.

The bottle’s in. Kitsune sucks. “There you go,” the Vic says, to Padgett, so Padgett passes it along.

“There you go, Kitsune. Liquid lunch.”

“Breakfast,” the Vic says.