My Piglet had always known his own mind. On his fifth birthday, he’d said, No more, when I offered my breast. This from the boy who had asked for milk every forty-five minutes from the time he was born, even if only a sip. I’m done, he said. Roughly, he pushed me away, so I was forced to look for other parenting strategies, and I found none but holding him.

I found none but holding him and singing the shipwreck lullaby and saying the names I’d made for him and offering him sugar when Karen wasn’t looking. Now my Piglet was seven, and his face was all fucked-up, and my breasts were full. I was as surprised as anyone, but there was no question of him nursing. He was over it.

I woke in the camper, leaking milk, stretched and sore. I don’t know how long Perley had been awake, but he sat cross-legged on the bed staring at me, his wound a bright gem on his face. “What’s the password?” he asked as soon as he saw my eyes open. I rolled over into the damp spot I’d made on the sleeping bag.

“Password?” I asked.

“This is my house,” he said.

“Piglet, you’re wounded. You need me to care for you,” I said. “You’re supposed to be wearing your bandage.”

“I took it off so I could see my wound,” he said. I reached for him, but that person, that imperious person, the apple of my eye, he showed me to the door. “It’s my house and you can’t come in if you don’t know the password,” he said. He gave me a gentle shove out onto the doorstep, and he shut himself inside the camper.

Down the garden path, the kale was bright green through its layer of frost. My breath marched before me toward the house. No smoke came from the chimney. On the porch, Karen used one of her wooden spoons to stir a pot of oatmeal on a propane burner. Helen came out with silverware in the front pocket of her overalls.

“No point in digging out bowls,” she said. “It’s impossible to find anything in there. The dish cupboard is behind a stack of old dresser drawers.”

“Perley kicked me out,” I said.

“Kicked you out? How does his face look?” asked Karen.

“His face looks horrible except for the big smile on it,” I said. “He says we can’t go into the camper unless we know the password.” We huddled on the porch, warming our hands over the oatmeal. I expected Karen to take the news hard, but she looked pleased. “Must mean he’s feeling better,” she said.

“But we need to look after him while he heals,” I said.

“As long as he lets me care for his wound every day,” Karen said, “I think that camper’s a good place for him.”