He had used a gun for deer. Taught me that, too. But I didn’t like fast killing any better than slow. I did like to eat, though.

“I’ve made a snare,” I said. “But not for deer.”

She flapped a hand tiredly. “What works for small things, works for big ones. I do set a snare now and then. Bait it with corn. Sometimes I catch a raccoon. Sometimes a deer.”

“You eat raccoon?”

“Don’t you?”

“I do,” Larkin said from the floor.

What a strange conversation we were having, we three. One abed. One lying on the floor. One standing. Talking about game.

“I haven’t,” I said. “But my father once made me a coonskin cap. The meat went to the dog.”

Cate nodded. “If you cook it right, raccoon is quite tasty.”

“Venison is better,” Larkin said.

“But where are the skins?” I said.

“Pah. How many skins does one old woman need?” She held up her hand and turned it in the air. “I’ve got this one I was born with, which could use a hot iron. And I’ve got some deerskin leggings rolled up in that trunk. A coat, too, warm as any fur.”

“Except bear,” Larkin said.

“Except bear,” she agreed. “But I cut the snare on the one bear I caught and ran for home as soon as I did.”

I tried to imagine that.

“How did you kill the deer you snared?”

“I used a knife. Cut their throats.”

Larkin nodded. “And she has a hoof scar to prove it.”

The two of them sounded very . . . satisfied, but neither of them was smiling.

“And I gave away all the other skins.” She held the doll closer against her cheek.

“Who did you give them to?” I asked.

For a moment, she didn’t answer. Then, “To Larkin.”

“How many skins does one boy need?” I said.

“And his father,” Cate said, the doll clenched in her fist.

Which was the first thing either of them had said about his father.

I looked from one of them to the other.

Both had gone quiet. The kind of quiet that hurts the ear.

Something was very wrong, suddenly, and I was standing right in the middle of it.

I looked down at Larkin. “Why doesn’t your mother like you coming up here?”

Larkin looked up at me through his one good eye.

“She doesn’t know how to read.”

Which was not a helpful answer.

“So what?”

“So I do.”

Which wasn’t any more helpful than what he’d already said.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing’s wrong with that,” Cate said.

“She’s scared I’ll leave,” Larkin said quietly.

“Leave?”

“Leave here,” he said. “Leave the mountains.”

I thought about Maisie and the things she might do to hold on to Quiet when Mr. Anderson came to take him away. But I couldn’t imagine her doing Quiet himself any harm of any kind.