She looks to Jo.

Jo thinks, mouthing names. “Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? Did Jenny Pike go to Sunnan?”

“No, she’s here,” I say. “I saw her down near the—”

“Anyway, it’s simple fare.” Sally talks over us. “We’d have done something grander if we’d planned it, but, next time!”

Jo smiles conspiratorially at me.

I return it. “Next time.”

We plan in defiance of death.

This is what drives ambitious people, whether they know it or not: I can’t possibly die without achieving this goal, taking this holiday, making this much money, and the goals keep changing, so I cannot die. We stave it off, but only in our imaginations. My ambitions were modest but constant. I would survive long enough to leave home. I’d get into a small liberal arts college hundreds of miles away. I’d find a way to pursue a higher-level degree so I could stay. After screwing it all up, I’d pack up, get out, find a haven among retirees—and even then, I was ready to run. To Hugh. To this.

I can’t die. I’ve got to plan a dinner party seven years in the future. I’ve got to watch my kids grow up.

“Ah!” Charlie lifts his hand.

Blood trickles down his thumb in a thin red line. He’s nicked himself, the tiniest shave from the peeler, but panic claws up me, ever ready.

I rush to him, grabbing up tea towels to stop the flow.

“It’s all right,” Jo says quietly. “Where do you keep your plasters?”

She’s asking me, but Sally answers, “Down the hall, over the loo.”

Jo ducks out to fetch one.

Briskly, Sally gives the pot a stir, then takes the peelers from the children. “Perhaps not today, kiddies. You’ve done very well; I’ll finish up.”

Emma’s stool wobbles as she kneels atop it, and I can see it happening, tipping at just the wrong angle, neck snapped like Andy Blanchard’s. No.

I take her carefully by the armpits and place her in a nice, low, safe chair at the round kitchen table in the corner.

Before she starts to protest, I grab a potato and a peeler back from Sally and place them in front of her. “Easier here, see?”

Sally looks impressed that I’m letting them peel after all.

I pick up Charlie next, though he’s more than old enough to get down himself. He hangs limply as I kick at a chair to put him in. He’s gone pale, still staring at his bundled hand.

Emma’s lip begins to tremble. “Will he die?”

“Oh God!” I kiss her forehead. “Sweetheart, no, he’s fine.”

“Will I die?” Now she’s crying.

“No! You won’t.” I say it firmly, angrily. “Not for a very long time.”