“I won’t tell her you said that.” Sarah opened the back door and called Basil. The big mutt wagged his away inside. “Who’s a good boy?” She loved him up and reached for a treat for him in the cabinet.

“Something little,” I said, nodding toward the dog. “Basil-boy is packing on a bit of a tire there.”

“Just following his master’s example.”

“Hey, I resemble that remark,” I joked.

Basil wiggled and waited. Sarah asked him to sit for his treat, then handed it over. “A Rathbone for Basil.” A family joke that was never quite as funny as it sounded, but it refused to die.

Meg joined us in the kitchen. “Now this is more like it.” She sat at the table and watched us. “So, sassy sister Sarah, how was the social studies test? My, that was a lot of s’s in one sentence.”

“Easy peasy.”

“I remember eighth grade,” Meg said.

“Oh no,” Sarah said.

“I hated eighth grade,” Meg continued.

“Why was that?” Sarah peeled a carrot.

“Mrs. Oliphant. We hated Mrs. Oliphant. We called her Madame Elephant, but it wasn’t so funny because she was a rail.”

“And why did you hate her?” Sarah asked.

“Well, if you’re just going to make fun of me …”

“No, really, I want to hear it.”

“Me too,” I said. “Please tell us about Madame Elephant.”

“I hate you both. I’ll just sit here and enjoy my tea.”

“You don’t have tea,” Sarah said.

“Yeah, about that.”

“I’ll put on water,” I said.

“Thank you.”

As happens, just as I was about to say something like that knife is really sharp, Sarah nicked her finger. It was easy to forget that she was twelve until moments such as this, when the pain was actually fear. She held her finger in the air in front of her face, staring at it as if in disbelief, her eyes welling.

“Come over here and let’s rinse it off. Let’s see what we’re working with here,” Meg said.

I stood back and let her handle it. Meg was good at mothering.

“Oh, it’s just a scratch. It’s good to bleed a little every now and then, lets the bad stuff out of our bodies.”

“It hurts,” Sarah said.

“Well yeah, it’s going to hurt a bit. A little pain is not such a bad thing. Hurts less already, doesn’t it?”

“I guess. Yes.”

“I’ll get a bandage,” I said and turned to the medicine drawer.

“Just a little pressure and then the band-aid,” Meg said.

“It’s only a band-aid if it’s made by Band-Aid,” Sarah said. “Ours are made by Curad, so they’re not band-aids, they’re bandages.”

“Do you and your father rehearse this stuff?”

“Your bandage, mademoiselle.” I peeled the paper free.

“Merci, monsieur.”

“May I?” I asked.

“S’il te plaît.”