The onion was already diced and her eyes were now tearing, too. “No,” said Sarah, suddenly self-conscious, as if she were actually crying. “Just hungry.”

“Have a carrot.” Kiki pointed to a small yellow bowl, with the tone one might use with a toddler. Kiki began sautéing the onions and garlic, and within a second of those fresh tomatoes and herbs hitting the pan, Sarah went from hungry to ravenous. Though Heather had laid out that platter earlier, Sarah had been too unsettled to taste anything and realized she hadn’t eaten since morning, which felt like a year ago. Why had she been in such a rush to get here? Sarah crunched on carrots as Kiki explained where Sarah and Matthew would be sleeping. Then Sarah walked toward the stairs, passing the two boys, who were finally quiet and lounging on the couch, bathed in the glow of an iPad.

The upstairs landing had bookshelves and, in between the bookshelves, a mini-daybed below a picture window. It was the kind of spot she’d always loosely dreamed of having if she ever owned a house in the country. When she looked out the window, she was met with only her reflection. She thought of the subway and the Czech man and St. Ivo. You are a good mother, he’d said. She knew she’d never tell anyone about that moment. It was too strange and it was all hers. She also somehow knew that shabby formal man would contact her. It filled her with calm. She followed Kiki’s instructions to their room for the night but passed it by, continuing on down the darkened hall to the master bedroom. She sat in the dark on the unmade bed beside the heap of a rumpled duvet. She caught Kiki’s scent—bergamot, lemons, woodsmoke—made out the shapes of small bottles and books sitting by Kiki’s side of the bed. Arman’s side was tidy, with a stack of papers and a pair of headphones. She thought she heard the baby.

Across the hall, the door was open. She opened it farther, slowly. It was cooler in there with the fan going, and soothing, with a small machine emanating patterned light and the sound of heavy rain. There was no other light, no monitor. The baby lay silent on her back in a zip-up sleep sack, her arms flung above her head as if she’d landed in slow motion right there in the poppy fields of sleep. The sour milky smell was almost sweet, and the appropriately stark crib had no adorable and potentially hazardous pillows or blankets, no plush lambs or bears. The baby’s dark hair curled in little wisps. Her lips were pursed as if she’d stopped sucking just a moment ago.