“He’s definitely supervised,” I said. She was a girl, I decided, a girl or not much older than one. She slipped her tablet into her pocket.

“Ms. Marshall. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go inside,” the girl said. “It’s getting cold out here. I’d like to have a talk with Perley. I’d like to see the child’s living situation.”

So I had to invite her in, but what was in? There was no in, though for a moment I thought I could invent one. I closed my eyes, but when I opened them, it was still our shack facing me. There was nothing to do but lead her to it and watch her confusion. She must have thought it was a toolshed. She must have thought it was a hollow tree. She was a girl but she was my own mother following me to the door, my mother who’d never come to visit, who’d moved to Virginia with someone she told me to call stepdad, my mother who’d never met Perley, though we sent pictures once a year, had just sent another one, the only way we ever remembered that it was Christmas.

Inside, the girl made a noise deep in her throat, put her sleeve over her mouth. I heard that gag before I remembered the smell, the steamed guts and deer brain, the boiling head, the snake musk, the cat pee, the mildew. Helen was invisible, separated from us by stacks upon stacks of old belongings. What was all this shit? Why hadn’t we thrown it away? All of it worn-out, molding, broken, no use. I couldn’t explain it, not to myself or to anyone. The girl gagged, a deep growl, and I showed her to the sofa. She perched on the edge like hovering over a toilet seat. I hovered over her. I folded my hands because there was nothing else I could fold.

“Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee?” I asked, but she shook her head. She took out her tablet again, shone the thing up at her face.

“Is this your primary dwelling?” she asked, rolling her finger across the screen.

“We’re always working on it,” I said. I struggled to remember my project, which was still sweetness, smoothness, nothing to hide.

Helen stuck her head out from behind the insulation pile. Her arms were red to the elbows, coated in blood, guts, and brain.

“Who’s this? A Jehovah’s Witness?” she asked. The girl looked up.

“This must be Ms. Sweeney,” the girl said, and I was happy to correct her.

“This is Helen,” I said. “Helen Conley. She’s like Perley’s aunt. She’s kind of a butcher.”

“Licensed?” asked the girl.

“I’m not a butcher,” Helen said. “I just happen to be doing some butchering. What is this? What is this about? Who are you?”