Mrs. Trent and Ezra joined us for dinner every night now. In fact, they cooked dinner most times. No more one-pot stews. Mrs. Trent was even starting to look less gaunt.

And the two of them, Ezra and Mrs. Trent, they cleaned our house. Really cleaned it. The cobwebs across the ceiling beams disappeared. They washed curtains, scoured rust spots. They even scrubbed the awful wallpaper in the back bedroom. The house settled into a new look.

And at night, after Ezra and I went to bed, Mrs. Trent and Gran leaned across the kitchen table. Talking, laughing.

Hearing Gran laugh softened the last calluses around my heart.

One afternoon, working on an art project, I sang softly under my breath.

Ezra looked up. “I’ve heard that song before.”

I stopped.

“No, don’t stop. What is that?”

“‘Tender Shepherd.’ I learned it for chorus.”

“You sang it to me. When I was sick. I remember.”

“You couldn’t remember.”

“But I do.”

I looked down at my book, embarrassed.

At dinner Ezra told about remembering the song.

That’s how we got on the subject of music.

Mrs. Trent liked music. Classical especially. Between Gran’s country and my rock, we must have driven her crazy. Shortly after she came, she asked if we had an extra radio. She listened to it in the living room, tuned to a public station that drifted in and out of range. Sometimes she played our old piano, too. The cold would stop her after a while, that and the piano being so out of tune.

“You like jazz?” Gran asked, spooning a second helping of scalloped potatoes onto her plate.

Mrs. Trent nodded.

“There’s a concert at the school tonight,” Gran said. “Nyle brought home an announcement. I found it in the trash.”

Ezra made a face at me.

“Gran, you hate school concerts. And half the jazz band moved away. It won’t be any good.”

“Maybe Ezra and Mrs. Trent would like to go,” Gran said.

Mrs. Trent touched the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Actually, I would love to go,” she said in her soft accent. “I sang when I was a girl.” For a moment her eyes rested on her ugly skirt, her roughened hands. She lifted her hair from her neck with her long fingers and swung her head back and forth. “It would be nice to get out.”

“But—” I said. What if people found out who they were?

“It’ll be good for everyone,” Gran said.

Gran had made up her mind.

We crowded onto the bench seat of the rusty pickup, squeezed so tight we could barely breathe. Gran banged my leg every time she shifted gears. We arrived late for the concert. We couldn’t find four seats together. Ezra and I stood in back, leaning against the cinder-block wall of the gym. I hoped no one would notice us.