The first thing that wakes me is the squirrels. They’re skittering on the tin roof and it’s loud, like they are right in this very room with their claws clicking across my brain. I always forget about the squirrels. They’re red, just like the dirt, and they’re big as cats. You’d think in December they’d find a hole to snuggle in and take a break.

I turn my head and see that Mom’s already awake. She’s sitting up on the side of the bed and slipping a sweater on over her nightgown. Her short hair is smushed flat in the back.

“You only brought in one of the suitcases.”

We were so worn out by the time we pulled in, we barely said a word to Mema before falling into bed.

“I know,” she says, and stands to look out the window instead of at me. I grip the mattress and push myself up until I’m sitting and can see out too. There’s a clear view of the Ford. The front bumper is hanging off and the hood’s bent up like a tepee.

“And you didn’t bring in my stander.”

“I know.”

“You’ve got to tell her.”

Still she won’t look at me.

“Mom, she’s going to figure it out eventually… you know, when we don’t leave next week.”

Mom snaps the blinds shut and it makes me jump and sends the squirrels running.

“Ellie, I know. I will tell her in my own way when the time is right. You’ve got to trust me to know when that is.”

“What’s all the hollering about?”

Mema comes in with a mug of coffee and hands it to Mom. There’s a mouse on it lifting a barbell, and it reads: LORD, GIVE ME STRENGTH. Mema’s short, but she squints at both of us so the lines around her blue eyes multiply and she looks fierce, like a tiny army general. Mom sips and eyes me over the rim.

“Nothing, Mema. I’m just not ready to get up yet,” I say.

“Well, you just sit tight, then, and I’ll get the food going. No one argues in my house before breakfast.”

She claps once and then holds her hands out like she’s trying to hug the whole room. “I am just so happy to have my girls home.”

After she leaves, Mom comes over and sits next to me and asks, “Need some help getting into your chair?”

I shake my head. Why would I let her help me when she never lets me help her?

“Here, mix these together.”

Mema passes me a plastic yellow bowl and dumps in two handfuls of flour and one of cornmeal. I dig through the drawers for a wooden spoon and notice she’s moved all the bowls and dishes down to the bottom cabinets.

She’s gotten ready for me.