“It’s not that I want to be alone,” I said. “It’s that I am alone. Sometimes.”

“Well, I don’t want to be alone,” Lily said. “That’s not what I signed on for.”

“We’re a wolf pack,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

“My breadwinner.” She sighed, burrowing close.

“Not the breadwinner,” I said. “The provider.”

“What’s the difference?” she asked.

“I want to provide education, skills, and structure,” I said.

“Structure?” Lily asked. “You mean a house?”

“A house,” I said. “And stability. I want to be so There that this kid doesn’t even know what There is because the kid’s life is defined by There. I want to be so There that I’m not there.”

I put my mouth into Lily’s hair, sucked a strand, pushed with my nose. “What about you? What kind of parent do you want to be?” I asked.

She touched her belly button, which was still concave. She was only six weeks along. “I can’t really imagine being a parent,” she said. “All I can imagine is this baby. When it comes out of there I’m going to get a bottle of Elmer’s glue, and I’m going to glue it to me. I’m going to love whoever it is until its head pops.” She turned in my arms, her body beginning to generate quarts of new blood. Twined together, we upset the sumac. It dropped its berries to smear our bodies the color of rust.

By mid-October the house was pretty much finished, even though Helen had ignored every single piece of building expertise I offered, treated me like goddamn free labor. But still, there it was, basically livable. Osage orange posts held up the porch roof, which leaked. Three large pieces of sandstone, pulled from the hillside, led down to the front door, which let daylight in above and below. Despite all its flaws, I’ll admit it wasn’t bad to look at.