I wondered about Isaac and Bay’s drive back to town. I’d rejected Isaac’s proposal. And then he’d spent hours in a car with Bay, from whom we’d been keeping secrets. I didn’t know Isaac to be vindictive, but the farm could change people. Isaac could have told Bay that we’d known each other in Durham. He could have told Bay that I’d revealed where I came from to Lindsay, and that, in doing so, I’d made the family vulnerable to his search, to my mother’s search. He could have talked on and on about my moment of doubt, the time-travel kiss in the hayloft. I imagined Bay’s rage as he heard how blithely I’d exposed the family, how casually I’d considered leaving. I imagined Bay telling Isaac that I’d killed a woman by smashing her head on the ground. I imagined Bay threatening Isaac, describing how the family could track him, haunt him. I imagined Bay’s rough face tensing, his hands, which could pull out a calf or twist a hen’s neck, tightening on the wheel. The family did what it had to do to survive in peace.

I sought out Bay, hoping to reassure myself that Isaac had revealed nothing on the drive back to Asheville. I looked for Bay in the hayloft, the barn, the storage house. While everyone rested, he was milking. He knew how to do everything. I loved him for that. I asked him, “How was the car ride back, with that boy?”

“Terrific,” he said loudly. “Perfect. What a guy.”

I should have been suspicious then, but instead I chose to be happy.

I watched Bay milk the cow, a blue-nosed girl with Dalmatian spots. His hands were terribly strong and sure. He was always sure. And he chose me, I thought. From all the many fake-world people he could have chosen.

I said, “I heard this protest is very small.”

“Only ten people,” he said. “It’s an action, not a protest.”

“Do you think I’ll be able to go next time?”

“That’s not the right goal.” Bay’s bucket was frothy. I couldn’t look away from his hands. Nothing more captivating than his knowledgeable hands. “Whenever I lose track of myself, Dice reminds me of the point of everything. Like a lightning bolt understands a rod.”

“I remember you telling me that the first time,” I said. I remembered the bus stop on Tunnel Road, my old clothes, my old hair, the way a new world had opened up to me. A fond, tearful feeling overwhelmed me—passing time, the raw sweetness of life, the girl I used to be, when Bay spotted me at the bus stop. Not a girl, I corrected myself, but a grouping of memories.

“Bay,” I said. “I want to belong to you.”