“Clearly they’re not used to an indoor cat.”

Sylvie steps into the orchard, wanders down a row, knotty pear trees surrounding us on both sides. Their delicate blooms give off a fragrant perfume, and the turned earth is soft underfoot. “My mom rarely shared stories from her childhood,” Sylvie says. “But there was one she’d repeat. In addition to their orchard, her family kept sheep. They had an Australian shepherd, Misty, raised from a puppy to herd them. When Misty was three, she went deaf. Mom’s dad put her down. One shot to the head.”

“Hana must’ve been devastated.”

Sylvie gives a sideways look. “She wasn’t.”

“What? Why the hell would she tell her own kid that story then?”

“For the moral. It’s a waste to expend resources on something that isn’t useful. That dog didn’t deserve their love. She didn’t even deserve to live.” Sylvie heads back to the farmhouse. “Come on. If we’re late for dinner, they’ll eat without us.”

EIGHTEEN

Sylvie

Admittedly, I was thrown off course when Mom let us in, afraid I’d lost control, but Thomas now feels sorry for me. The story about Misty, which is true, plus Mom’s taunts and Dad’s discomfort, pushed him along. Goal achieved. Thomas pities me and that’s a weapon I can use to manipulate him. But I don’t just want his sympathy. I want him to believe. I’m not sure why that matters to me, but it does. I probably shouldn’t have kissed him. It was meant to throw him off, but he responded . . . and I did, too. I’ve read that prisoners become attracted to their captors and he’s definitely holding my career hostage. Do I want him to believe as some kind of twisted revenge, or as validation?

Dinner is a series of uncomfortable three-word conversations. Pass the salt. Wess, more rice? Delicious meal, Hana. Thomas is abysmal at eating with chopsticks, the only utensils Mom provided. After watching him try and fail repeatedly, even with the sticky rice, I finally take pity and say, “Hold the upper chopstick like a pencil, one-quarter of the way up like this . . . Good, now place the other stick against your ring finger and secure it with the bottom of your thumb.” I reach over and help him get it right, my fingers pressed against his warm skin. “Okay, now move the top chopstick with your index, thumb, and middle fingers.” Thomas tries to pick up a clump of rice but only a few grains make it into his mouth. “It takes some practice.” I get him a fork. He eats quickly, eyes down. I almost feel sorry for him. When he’s done, he compliments Mom then attempts to hide his fork beneath the edge of his plate.

Thomas says, “Since we don’t have much time together, I’d like to ask a few more questions.” He pulls out his phone, sets it on the dining table. “Mind if I record?”

“Yes,” Hana says. “And I’ve already answered your questions.”