“It’s writing about whatever you feel like, pick a subject.  It doesn’t have to be long.  It helps if it’s something you care about, like Jeremy writes about horses almost every time.”

Miller nodded.  Now he understood.  He was also aware, however, that Ada was watching him and that tended to make him not think quite straight.

“You don’t have to say what you decide.  Though usually we do.”

“And they’re on government stationery,” Ellis said, noting with interest the pages on the wall.

“Lenore gave it to us.  That way, if you want very much to let someone know something, you can and it’s official.”

“Tempting.”

“I’m going to write on the Colt pistol,” Charlotte said.  Ellis narrowed his eyes at her, but said nothing.  What Colt pistol?  Something else he didn’t remember her mentioning to him.

“Brewster?” she said.

“My Henry rifle.”  Charlotte smiled.

“Ada?”

“Jenkins McPherson.”  Charlotte stopped smiling.

“Ellis?”

“You forgot me,” Jeremy said.

“Good.  Let him take his turn while I try and think of something.”

“My pants,” Jeremy said.

“Your pants?”

“It’s that they have these special buttons on them now.”  The ones she’d found in his mother’s button box, with curious anchors on them.

“Ellis?  I’m back to you.”

“Dried buffalo meat.”

Charlotte tried hard not to burst out laughing.  “Miller?”

“No one’s ever asked me to write a sketch before in my whole entire life,” he said.  “I just found out what one is.”

“It’s only a poor man’s way of schooling, that’s all.  Just make up a subject.  That’s what the rest of us are doing.  For example, dried buffalo meat.”

“Jack, then, my horse,” Miller said and Jeremy smiled.  Ada prayed that Charlotte wouldn’t mention the sketch about Miller’s horse already up on the wall, the first one Ada had written because she couldn’t come right out and write about Miller.

<>

On a Wednesday evening in the middle of a rainstorm while they were eating dinner together a knock came at the door.  Charlotte froze with her fork halfway to her mouth and turned pale.  She put the fork down and folded her hands tightly in her lap.

“Ellis, please?”

He nodded and went to the door.  It was Tobias, soaking wet, his hair plastered to his head, rain dripping off his waterproofs.  Charlotte felt herself exhale.  She took a moment to recover, but then realized that her problems had just begun.  Might as well take them on directly, she told herself, and stood up for the full effect.

“Tobias,” she said.  “You’re back.”

“I said I’d be.”  He was appreciating the warm familial scene before him, the table, the fire, the food, and not actually focusing on her yet.

“Get off your wet things.  Is your horse still out there?”