She reaches out and takes Marit’s hand. Marit squeezes back, grateful, and I marvel again at how natural Jo is. She doesn’t seem to feel any separation between herself and others, even strangers. Any reserve is for the sake of politeness. She gives so freely of herself. It’s such work for me to open up to people, like putting on a mask instead of removing one.

“He was helpful,” I say. Jo cocks her head. “Matthew.”

“He is helpful. To a fault.” She sighs. “He told me you came to get him. I think he’d have stayed up there with them all day if you hadn’t pulled him out.”

I think for a second that the “them” she’s talking about are the strange assortment of machines littering his bedroom, but then I remember the photos, the way he’d sat slumped over the table like he was hoping to fall into the images.

His wife. His daughter. Today is an anniversary for him, the next tithing day after the one that took them. Jo said “pulled” him out as if I’d rescued Matthew from something, but now I feel a fresh stab of guilt. He was mourning them in peace, and I interrupted.

“He said you saw his contraptions.” Jo’s mouth quirks.

“The machines?” I rub my eyes, too tired to fully commit to feigned obliviousness. “I shouldn’t have asked him about them. An American, prying about the war effort of all things. Just what he needed today.”

“You’re not that kind of American,” Sally interrupts from the stove.

I crane my neck to smile at her. “Thank you?”

Jo nudges me with her shoulder, but it’s Marit who pipes up.

“No, I know what she means. There are Americans who go and see the world and move to different places. They’re … I don’t know, they have a certain positive thing that is nice, people like it or don’t like it.”

I laugh, surprised. “What?”

“You know.” She tosses her hair in imitation. “‘Everything is so awesome! This fountain is amazing, this is the best ice cream ever, we’re gonna go do seven museums today!’”

“I’m so glad you haven’t met any ugly Americans,” I say, shaking my head. “Is that what I’m like? Everything’s amazing?”

Jo winces, making a little bit sign with her fingers. I whap her and she snorts, but Marit considers the question thoughtfully.

“Better that than those Americans I’ve seen on the news, the people who are really weird, right? They have like eighty-seven guns and tattoos of, what’s the English for a … like a big bird?”

“Eagle?” I offer, laughing in surprise.

“Those are the ones that I think start the war.” Marit blinks, concentrating. “Started the war. Or got tricked into it.”