Her hands slide against mine, just for a moment, soft and cool and comforting, as she takes the pan from me. Rose pulls back the dishcloth and takes a whiff before she pulls off a pinch with her thumb and forefinger and munches away. “A little stingy with the cinnamon, but the crust ain’t half bad. Must be them cold hands you got. Cold hands make the best pastry.”

She likes my pie; the relief is almost painful.

“Nice boots,” I offer, not ready to leave yet.

“Good, eh? My niece sent ’em from the Bad Place with a tourist and Ted rowed them over from Appledore.”

The Bad Place is where we all come from. Some people think it’s nasty to call it that. Mostly it’s referred to as the mainland or off-island but some people are adamant. They left for a reason and they aren’t going back except maybe in a mahogany box. Rose says she wants to be dropped in the sea, that she’d rather be fish food than go back there. She’s really sweet, I don’t want to give you the impression that she’s hateful and twisted, but she is a bit fucked up and she’ll admit it. She was raped by two teenage boys when she was sixty. She’s seventy-two now. They followed her home; it was still light out. One of them held her down while the other one raped her. And then they switched. She said she screamed the whole time but apparently no one heard, which is fucking typical. She still limps on account of they fractured her hip. She said it helps to talk about it, and that that night is the reason she came to Swan. She needed a place to be old where she’d be safe and where she could be herself. I told her I hated people who did that, preyed on the weak. She looked angry and said, “I am not weak.” And I said I didn’t mean her. I think she understood. So I guess it’s fair to say that me and Rose are pretty close.

But anyway, her new boots are like knee-high moccasins with fringes and turquoise beads. With her brown legs and denim mini-skirt she looks like that Native American princess. She even has her long gray hair in two braids to match. She once told me that she used to dress like Mother Teresa on her day off, but that all changed once she moved out to Swan.

“They’re great. You look like that Native American princess.”

She laughs that big, chicken-and-dumplings laugh of hers. “Pocahontas, you little ignoramus. Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“Mental-health day.”

That’s our little joke.

“Well, Miss Mental Health Day, you better move that caboose. You’re late.”

I am, or nearly anyway.