When she gets back home she walks behind the house, leaving the groceries in the car. She watches Henry’s shadow move as if suspended on the ceiling of the barn. He’s built scaffolding to work up there, though they don’t talk about what he’s constructing. She thinks of going to ask him to come inside and sit with her—to hold her, help her. But she doesn’t; she has a strange fear of going into this space that is now only his, this space she’s not sure she believes in anymore. She lights another cigarette and checks her texts, hoping she might have one from Maddie. Just her sisters-in-law, though: Kate telling her she’s bringing an extra air mattress, asking about blankets, whether or not she needs to bring more flour; Tess reminding her of Colin’s peanut allergy. Alice makes a list, on her phone, of all the work she still has to do to make the house ready for Henry’s siblings, takes a last drag of her cigarette, goes around to get the groceries from the car.

Quinn and Madeleine

“Walrus!” Quinn says. They pop both their teeth out of their mouths as if they’re tusks, flap their arms and hands; they bark, twist their bodies like they’re gliding on the ground.

They walk from Quinn’s work, where they have gone together because there was no school and Quinn didn’t have a sitter. Maddie sat for hours behind Quinn’s law-office reception desk—while Quinn answered phones and greeted people, she read her book, then googled on the phone she got from the social worker when she got bored. Now they play the game they often play on their walk home, Animals. Maddie likes it because she loves animals, Quinn likes it because she likes being the sort of mom who will pretend to be a walrus or a horse out on the street regardless of the people who might watch.

“Spider,” Maddie says, her words mangled because her teeth are still out of her mouth.

Quinn spreads her arms out wide over her head and straightens her back. Maddie goes on tiptoe, bringing her hands close to her chest, fingers working like they’re weaving a web.

“Unicorn,” says Quinn, and Maddie neighs and makes hooves out of her hands; both of them prance, heads up high and bounding down the hill, rolling their necks.

“Dragon,” Maddie says. They spread their arms. Maddie opens her mouth wide and hisses hot air from her throat, spitting fire.

“Octopus,” says Quinn, and they both wiggle, loosening and rolling their bodies and their limbs. “Do octopuses—octopi?—make any sounds?” Quinn asks.

“Octopuses,” Maddie says. “No sound.”