Which I did, though I ended up doing most of the work myself while he told me how to do it.

As I squeezed off some of the potato juice, he said, “Why isn’t Daddy awake?”

I stopped what I was doing. “He’s tired, is all. He needs a lot more sleep before he wakes up again.”

“But he’s already been sleeping for a long time.”

I nodded. “I know that. But he’ll wake up soon.” I set aside the potato. “Now we’ll collect some witch hazel twigs.”

“Some what?”

By answer I took him out again into the yard and across to where the witch hazel grew. “The bark makes a good skin cleaner.” I yanked off some twigs.

Samuel spent some time on one of the bigger branches before he gave up and dedicated himself to a twig as thick as his little finger. But even that was too much for him.

“It would be easier if these were dead,” I said. “But they’re alive, so they bend a lot before they break.”

Which made me think of Cate, and my father. And mother. And Larkin. And his mother.

The list was long.

“Here,” I said. “Let me.”

But he shrugged me off and used both hands, bending the twig back and forth until he’d sawed through the raw green of it.

He held the twig up like a trophy. “Do you want some more?”

“No, that’s perfect,” I said. “We’ll boil this up and mix some with the potato.”

Which we did. The result was a goopy mess, but I had learned to have quite a lot of faith in goopy messes.

“Just lay this onto his sores,” I told my mother, holding out the bowl. “And cover them with something. The witch hazel might sting, but it won’t be as bad as vinegar.”

My mother didn’t take the bowl. “Don’t you think you should do this yourself?”

I thought about how I had managed to squeeze honey into Cate’s wound but had not imagined treating my own father’s sores.

“Won’t you?” I said in a small voice.

She considered me for a long moment, chewing her lip, before she reached for the bowl. “Yes. I’ll do this part, Ellie. You go on and help Samuel with his lessons.”

Except that wasn’t right. That didn’t feel right. Or good at all. When she said that, my gut—the spot at the top of my belly, just below my heart—swung off-kilter.

I remembered teaching Samuel to catch the trout. How I had been the one to club it over the head. But he was just small, and I wasn’t. And if I was to be the one to start something, I would be the one to finish it.

So, “No,” I said slowly, swinging back toward true. “I don’t mind. I’ll do it.”