“Thanks, but I don’t have a place to keep the meat,” I said.

“I already thought about that,” said Lily. “You can borrow our pressure canner. Jars and lids, too.” She turned to lift it all from the bed of the truck.

What was I supposed to do? The sun was coming out, and steam rose up off every jutting muddy piece of the land, which sparkled in a great show of democracy. A discarded truck bumper shone just like the sandstone, just like a scrap of metallic insulation and the white of yarrow flowers and the flash of blue jays’ wings, a coil of chicken wire, an old license plate half entombed in mud. Karen picked up the traffic cones. Lily handed me the canner and shouldered the bag of jars. We went up the hill.

“What are the cones for?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” Karen said.

“I hear you’re a nurse,” I said.

“I hear you’re from out West,” she said. “City girl.”

“But I’ve been outside a lot,” I said. “I mean, I’ve worked outside.”

“Sure,” she said. “I was in Seattle once. Hitchhiked there after I picked apples in Wenatchee when I was young and stupid.”

“What did you think?” I asked.

“There wasn’t much to see besides too many goddamn mountains,” she said. “But Lily told me you’re going back soon.”

“Probably,” I said.

“If it suits you,” she said. “Me, I was glad to come home.”

“I’ve seen you at the grocery store cracking people’s backs,” I said.

“It’s true that I do that,” Karen said. “But I’d rather you think of me as a whittler.”

“What do you whittle?” I asked.

“Useful things,” Karen said.

“And not so useful,” Lily said. “You should see it. She can’t just carve a spoon without she has to put a captive ball in the handle.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Whittling’s just subtraction,” Karen said. “Start with the spoon handle, then carve out a case for the ball to fit in, carve the ball at the same time, last thing you do, you wick off the tiny piece holding the ball to the case, watch it rattle around inside. Seems impossible when you see it, like elves made it or some shit.” She set down the traffic cones and took a knife from her pocket, pulled the short blade from the cork it was plunged in. “That’s what you call a sheepsfoot blade,” she said, holding it out to show me.

“Karen’s a perfectionist,” Lily said. “She spent hours carving a tiny thimble-size skull out of cherrywood, and then she gave it to me for my birthday.”

“She lost it,” Karen said.

“I put it in a safe place,” Lily said.

“How can you lose a skull in a sixteen-by-sixteen cabin?” I asked.

“Oh, you can,” Lily said. “You can lose anything anywhere.”