Miss Warner had taught them how to be pretty. There was a skill to being pretty. It didn’t just happen, not even to pretty girls. It had to be coaxed. There was more to being pretty than having good looks. Long ago, Paul had always believed girls were born either beautiful or not. But that’s not how it was, Miss Warner had told him.

“A woman’s beauty is of her own engineering,” she’d once said.

Reese had always wanted to please Miss Warner—she was a natural pleaser. And Reese seemed to fill the space Miss Warner’s late daughter might have filled had she been alive. Reese and Miss Warner loved one another.

The same could not be said of Ruth and Miss Warner. Ruth was her own woman. And sometimes she went clomping through the woods in overalls and boots, even though Miss Warner forbid such clothing, and such activity. She was just like Paul, is what she was. She was not owned by anyone, or any convention. This made Paul proud.

Paul finished shaving and wiped his face. He tore small pieces of newspaper and wet them with spit, then stuck them to the cuts on his face.

“You ugly dope,” he said aloud.

Pete appeared in the barn doorway. His silhouette was strong. He was dressed in a full suit, with a yellow wildflower in his lapel, and wore a brown hat. He was just as wiry as he was tall.

Paul could only stare at him.

“You ready, Paul?” said Pete in a deep voice.

Paul neared Pete and took him in with his eyes. “Where’d you get that monkey suit?” Paul said, touching the fabric of Pete’s jacket.

“It used to belong to Miss Warner’s husband, before he died. Why, do I look stupid?”

Paul felt a throbbing in his throat. “No,” he said.

“I wanted to wear regular clothes,” said Pete. “But Miss Warner said she’d murder me if I wore overalls to a wedding.”

Paul reached a hand upward and touched Pete’s rough cheek. Stubble and bone. He was a child in an adult body.

“You’re a beautiful man, son. Beautiful.”

*  *  *

When they’d boarded the train, Miss Warner told Paul, “I think I’m going to be sick. I have vertigo.”

“Just breathe,” said Paul.

“I’m trying,” she said. “But I’m sick to death.”

“Well, don’t die on me, not here. That would be rude, and I’ve never known you to be rude.”

The train was filled with people. Men in business suits with briefcases. Families with children. Throughout the train ride, Paul would rest his hand on Miss Warner’s shoulder. Paul knew what she was suffering wasn’t vertigo. It was the same thing he was suffering. Loss.