Hanna wondered what they were saying, but at least she could tell that they were enjoying the soup. After the oldest woman tasted it, she said something to the others. Then another woman had a bite and said something else. They each took a second taste and had further conversation. It was just like Mama’s friends in Chinatown, or the lady visitors at Miss Lorna’s boardinghouse: They were talking about the soup—the ingredients, the flavors.

By the end of the meal, the two little girls had grown brave enough to draw closer to Hanna. When she smiled at them, they shrieked in delight and ran back to the others.

The women rose to leave. Their leader addressed Hanna.

—Wahan’pi kin nina waste, na pidamaya

Her voice was quiet as she nodded at Hanna. Hanna nodded back, hoping it was the right response.

Mama always gave guests food to take home. She turned and hurried to the wagon, found an empty flour sack, and put in a few fistfuls of dried beans, then returned to her guests. She handed the sack to the gray-haired elder.

The old woman turned and had a brief exchange with her companions. One of them reached into her bundle, pulled something out, and passed it to the leader. She held it at shoulder height; it dangled from her hand.

It looked like a string of small white onions, or perhaps bulbs of garlic, braided together by their stems.

The old woman nodded at Hanna, then said something that sounded like “timp-sina.” She gave the braid a little shake.

“Timp-sina?” Hanna repeated hesitantly.

The little girls giggled, and the women smiled.

“Timpsina,” Hanna said again, this time with more certainty.

The old woman gave the braid to Hanna, who examined it with interest. The white tubers were clearly some kind of vegetable. The largest, at the bottom, were as big as a child’s fist. They tapered in size along the length of the braid, the smallest about the size of a walnut. She touched one of them. It was rock hard.

They’ve been dried, like Mama used to do with mushrooms.

She looked up to see the old woman watching her closely. The woman pursed her lips again; this time she jerked her chin toward the kettle on the fire.

It’s as if she’s pointing with her lips, Hanna thought. “I cook them in water?” she asked. She pointed at the kettle.

Shaking her head, the woman motioned toward the kettle again, and then toward the sky, tracing the path of the sun from east to west. She held up three fingers.

“Three days?” Hanna said. She can’t possibly mean to cook them for three days. Kettle—water—

“Oh! I should soak them for three days, before I cook them?” She made appropriate gestures as she spoke.

The old woman smiled and nodded. Then she waved toward one of the empty soup bowls.