“Here, cut this up in bite-sized pieces,” Celia instructs me, handing over some cold chicken out of the fridge.

While I’m working on that, she flours the countertop and rolls out a large lump of pastry. She lines two pie pans with the dough, while also making some kind of white sauce on the stove that smells buttery and delicious.

“What will this be?” I ask her.

“Chicken pot pie,” she says.

I’ve never tried that before. Possibly my expression betrays that, because Celia says, “Don’t worry, it’s good.”

“I’m sure it is,” I say hastily. “I’m not picky.”

As I watch her assemble the pies with the chopped chicken, the sautéed vegetables, and the gravy-like sauce, it reminds me of an Irish dish.

“My family makes something like this,” I tell her. “Chicken and dumplings.”

“Sure,” Celia says. “That’s similar.”

Celia shows me how to top the pie pans with another circle of pastry, then crimp the edges to seal the top and bottom of the pie. Then she makes little slashes across the top of each pie.

“What does that do?” I ask her.

“Lets the steam out.” She slides the pies into the oven. “There. Those’ll be done in an hour.”

I know I should probably use that time to shower and change my clothes, but I find myself lingering in the kitchen, which is warm and cozy and smells like sage and browned butter. I want to talk to Celia longer.

So I say, “Raylan is so good with horses.”

“One of the best I’ve ever seen,” Celia agrees. She wipes a strand of hair away from her forehead with the back of her flour-dusted hand, giving me a little smile. “And I’m not just saying that because he’s my son.”

I hesitate, hoping I’m not about to offend her.

“Why did he enlist?” I ask. “He seems to love it here . . . ”

Celia sighs. “He does,” she agrees. “I think . . . I think he felt he had to leave. For a while, at least.”

I frown, not understanding.

“Has Raylan told you anything about his father?” Celia asks me.

“No.” I shake my head. “Nothing at all.”

An omission I noticed immediately, since he talked openly about all the rest of his family.

Celia hesitates a moment, as if she’s deciding how much to tell me. I’ve seen this before in depositions—the human desire to share information, battling against the endless unknowable consequences of our own words. I can see that she wants to explain but doesn’t want to anger Raylan.

At last, she says, “I didn’t grow up in a house like this—big and beautiful, with every amenity. I was the kind of dirt poor you only see in the south. I had one pair of shoes, and when they got too small for me, I slit the front of them so my toes could poke out. I had seven brothers and sisters. I was the oldest, so most of the care for them fell on my shoulders. Getting food for them was a constant battle. I’d get a loaf of Wonderbread and make margarine and brown sugar sandwiches, if we had margarine or brown sugar. And then the whole loaf was gone, and I had to find something else.”