Brian pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket and opens it against his hip.

“John William Ashford!” he shouts.

Everyone repeats, “John William Ashford!” his full name, all shouts combining in one strong, resonant voice. All shouts but mine.

I feel pierced that I hadn’t known this custom, that I’ve just missed the chance to speak my friend’s name. There is so much I wish I’d known.

Brian’s eyes return to the paper. “Nils Larsen.”

“Nils Larsen,” we all say.

I hear a pinched voice joining in behind me and see Marit sitting on the ground, her glass raised like everyone else’s.

“Christian Dahl,” Brian reads, and we all repeat it, our shouts linked into one great cry that seems to erupt from the ground itself.

Diana Shaw is crying silently. She only met the hikers once, she said earlier, when they popped into the post office asking to use the phone, but they’re ours now. They belong to our tradition, our history.

I’m not ready for the next one.

“Avery Jane Smith.” Even Brian’s voice breaks on this one.

I feel like I’m going to collapse, but an arm slips around my waist, bearing me up. It’s Jo. She rests her forehead against mine, and we stand together, a lean-to, as we say her name, all of us together. Avery Jane Smith.

Her parents shout the words. Not defiantly but almost proudly, lips white with pain. They lift their glasses, but they don’t drink. When silence falls again, they stare ahead of them as if the party’s dropped away and there is nothing left to see.

We need to get them fed.

I glance behind me and see Sally in the doorway. She catches my eye and nods. I scan the house for Hugh before remembering where he is, what I did.

Blood rushes to my face, but I breathe it away. He’s fine, sleeping. I’ll check on him once everybody’s settled. Make up some excuse for why he’s not coming to join us.

“Everyone? Friends?” I call out. “Please come inside. Dinner’s ready when you are.”

They file across the lawn, nodding graciously to me as they come. I try to name them in my head as my eyes land on them. We should all be named in our lives and not just our deaths, shouldn’t we? Names matter. We were here. We are here.

“That wasn’t your speech, was it?” Jo whispers, elbowing me. “What do they teach you at these American universities?”

I laugh, really laugh, and shush her.

As the villagers mount the stairs to the house, Pixie and Max scrambling up between them, I say, “Careful on the steps,” in the same voice I use for the children.

Ernie Withers climbs up slowly, clinging to the stone banister.