Then the President of the United States came on.

Finally the camera returned to a somber-faced anchorwoman.

And then they cut to a string of commercials, idiotic commercials.

Muncie tugged at my arm and turned me away from the television screens.

Gran planned on meeting us outside at six fifteen. We were late.

Fifteen

With her one-pot mentality, Gran rarely thought of making anything but oatmeal or fried eggs for breakfast. I hated oatmeal and I wasn’t crazy about fried eggs. As soon as I was old enough to use the stove, I learned to make pancakes.

Since the accident, food could be hard to get. Especially fresh eggs and milk. Between what Gran had canned and frozen, and the general store in North Haversham, we usually found things to eat. Almost everything at the store came in tins now and cost twice as much as it had before. What you needed wasn’t always there. But so far no one had starved to death.

The Sunday after our trip to Manchester, I steamed a large pan of apples with honey and cinnamon. I fried pancakes in the shape of sheep. Dozens of cakey, golden-brown lambs leaping from the pan onto the warming plate.

Gran never made frivolous food, but I knew she liked eating it. She’d put down a huge plate of my pancakes.

I tipped the bowl and scraped the last spoonfuls of raw batter as Gran came in from outside. The puppy looked up from inside his box, sniffing hopefully, then flopped his head back down.

Drizzling the last of the batter into the hot skillet, I listened as pancake sheep sizzled. The cinnamon apple smell warmed the kitchen.

I hadn’t seen Ezra in more than twenty-four hours.

Gran poured herself some coffee. She sat at the table, her hands wrapped around the steaming mug. She studied a pile of papers. They’d come in the mail yesterday from the government—new regulations for dairy sheep. A lot of cows supplying milk to this area had died because of the accident. Clean little farms like ours suddenly interested the government.

“It’s bitter out there this morning,” Gran said. “Better not put the puppy out yet.”

I never minded his staying in.

“Gran?” I said, watching the pancakes. “I’ve been thinking about Ezra and his mother staying on. Even after he’s all better.”

Gran turned her face to me, a cloud of steam softening her features. She took a sip of coffee. Shook her head. “They can’t.”

“Why not?” I looked over at her.

“Nyle, we’re part of the accident. Ezra and his mother need a fresh start.”

“What will happen to them?”

Gran snapped at me. “Pay attention to what you’re doing. You’re scorching your sheep, girl.”

I slid the spatula under the sheep pancakes and flipped them. The undersides had blackened.

“Ezra likes the farm,” I said. “At least he likes hearing about it. I know he’d like to stay.”

“He’d love to stay. Right in that back room,” Gran said. “That doesn’t mean that’s what’s best for him.”