A soft whistle from Aine, a heavyset Irish woman who had accompanied her “family” in their move from Boston to here. “How did that happen?” Annie, quizzical at first, feigning ignorance when she realized what Aine was after. “That little angel you’re picking up doesn’t have the strength for that. The missus hard on you, ever? You’re so young, so doe-eyed. She probably thinks you’re after her husband.” When Annie said nothing, she was egged on. “I’ll keep an eye out for you. We gotta stick together. It’s not like we have a union.” Annie twitched her lips, nodded her head, thought about moving further into the classroom, closer to Suzy. But didn’t.

She didn’t mention either that the mark Mrs. Keller had given her had faded days ago. That she had been pinching the spot herself, twisting the skin to make it purple again, sinking into the dull throb of it, amazed at the pigment her skin could turn if she just yanked hard enough.

The truth was close enough.

On the day of the party, Mrs. Keller gets up early, washes her hair, puts on makeup. Of course, she looks nothing like herself, more like a limp body strung up by a spine. Suzy’s entire preschool class is invited right after school on a Friday.

“Streamers there. And there. No balloons in the front hall. I don’t want them floating up to the ceiling,” she calls out to Annie all morning, pointing her spindly finger this way and that. She’s lost so much weight that she’s stopped wearing her wedding ring, and her hands look empty, her skin as thin as the crepe paper bunting strewn along the back porch railing.

The zoo van arrives with the pony, its sad eyes gazing at nothing as it’s led out of its transportable cage onto the back lawn. In the kitchen, Annie is putting the finishing touches on the cake—double vanilla, Suzy’s favorite, several layers, buttercream frosting, pink and gold with glittery unicorn candles.

But Mr. Keller had, oddly, been intent on helping out with the cake. “Give me a job, chef,” he’d said cheerfully, saluting Annie. She had him measure dry ingredients, prepare pipettes full of frosting, stick a toothpick in the cakes to make sure they were done. It had been the longest they’d been alone. He was quiet, concentrated on the tasks at hand. She felt his presence, though. Nothing looming or threatening. In fact, he was almost meek, asking again and again if he was doing everything right, so precise that each scoop of flour or sugar fit perfectly in the measuring cups, not a hair over the rim.

Now he gazes at her with wonder as she finishes decorating the cake, pasting marzipan stars on the middle layer. “How in the world did you learn to do that? It looks like it’s store-bought.”