Cate imagines Frances’s house, which Maureen refers to as a cottage. Woodland tones throughout, that goes without saying. An already overstuffed sofa further cushioned with large pillows, a couple of heavy throws. A rough-hewn table, its top a repurposed barn door. Set out on this would be an arrangement of rocks with words etched into them.

harmony. acceptance. purpose.

Two plump cats and a carpeted kitty condo. Cate doesn’t particularly like herself when she sums up strangers like this, by their decor—especially when it’s decor she’s imagining for them—but this doesn’t stop her from doing it.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking,” Frances says, taking Cate’s bad hand, turning it over, rubbing it between her own thumb and middle finger. “What happened here?”

This almost never happens. People are usually too polite, or squeamish. Or they don’t want to risk hearing something gruesome. But Frances inhabits a sharing culture; she has probably offered up a lot of her own private stuff in group therapy sessions and sweat lodges and the tents of tarot readers. By now, she probably expects returns on her investments.

“Workshop accident. When I was a kid,” Cate says.

“Oh, honey. That must’ve been the worst day of your life.”

“Really the worst day was when the fingers came out of the dressings, and the grafts hadn’t taken.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry,” Frances says, covering at once the accident, its aftermath, and herself for bringing it up.

“It’s an old story by now. And I can do almost everything with what I still have.” She picks up her teacup, sets it down as a little demonstration. “My two big pieces of luck were not losing the thumb and that it happened to my left hand.”

Maureen comes back from the counter with two enormous pieces of carrot cake. “I thought we could share,” she says to Cate, who’s wondering how three people are supposed to share two pieces of cake. Then she says to her sister, “What did you think of that yellow quilt on the back wall?”