We hiked downhill and spotted the flock of sheep on a knob, idling in the grass. A little farther, and the holler came into view, folding serenely around the barn, the long house, and the storage house, the hickory, the kitchen garden. In all the hazy peaks beyond our house, we couldn’t see another dwelling. But I knew that the housing developments were marching over the hills. Isaac said, “Don’t you miss civilization?”

“We’re civilized,” I said.

“I mean, don’t you miss grocery stores, choices, that kind of thing?”

“No.” I felt danger in Isaac’s question, his searching, searching, searching.

But I did miss some things about civilization. I missed the kind of girl who’d tie a black grosgrain ribbon around her ponytail. I missed video tutorials for fishtail braids, milkmaid braids, Heidi braids, and braids stuffed with daisies. I missed the store at the mall that made cookie cakes, Mrs. Fields, the smell of stiff teal frosting, the different smell of gel-like frosting.

I missed seeing a police officer with a forearm tattoo that said, Dying to be loved. I missed under-cabinet lighting, putting damp towels on the hot car seat after the pool and drying in ten seconds, double-chocolate Milanos, the TV reporters getting blown sideways like the first airplanes while covering hurricanes at Kitty Hawk, gummy hard-to-wash deodorant in my armpits, tiny leg hairs in the bathtub, wigs pinned to the walls as décor like busted lapdogs, the kind of jewelry that makes your skin green and metallic smelling, a song from the past that said, “If being afraid is a crime, we hang side by side.”

I missed entering rooms filled with Isaac’s friends, rooms filled with smoke and people who overthought everything. “Nobody knows the nature of traps better than one who sits in a trap his whole life long”: poetry even I could understand.

If I went back I’d have to apologize, I’d have to explain why I’d left. People would think I was silly. But here, I could forget what century I lived in. I could forget what country. I could forget who I was. I didn’t matter. All that mattered was what I did—guiding the sheep home, mixing in the rennet with the milk.

* * *

Sara and Gemini led Isaac to the loft at bedtime. I was searching out a bunk when Dice pulled me into the meeting room. He had a strong grip on my wrist that sent thrills skittering up and down my back.

“Harmony,” Dice said. “Will you go make sure the new boy is comfortable? Bring him some water, some cake?”

“He’s got some water. I gave him a jar.”

“Harmony,” Dice said, as though I hadn’t spoken. “Will you go make sure the new boy is comfortable?”