“You’re right,” he said. “It’s a life skill. You can learn to make a fire with sticks, too. I practiced every day for an hour, and in a year I could do it. And in the Ash Family, there’s a guy who bootstrapped his tools from scratch. You know how to do that?”

“Using sticks?” I said.

“You make a really crude lathe. Then you make crude tools and make a better lathe. Then you make better tools. Lathe your way to a better lathe. Come down here and sit by me, baby.”

He kissed me on the lips. He pulled my hair down till my head rolled back and then he kissed me on the neck. “You’re nice,” he said. “I want you to come meet my family. You’ll fit in well. I can’t wait for them to meet you.”

I smiled. I thought that this was my victory. I thought I’d gotten something from him.

CHAPTER 4

On my first evening at the farm, the sheep guided me home. It was dusk when they whirled past me. Several men exited the barn, calling and gesturing, and the sheep shambled in. A man laid long handfuls of grain in the feeder trough. He saw me watching and said, “Not enough pasture this time of year.” I wished he would congratulate me on bringing home the herd.

No one paid me much mind inside the house, either. Warmth and smoke and a frying-onion smell billowed from the kitchen, but there was no space for me there—an older woman kneaded bread at the table, a man flipped vegetables in an immense black pan, another sliced a licheny cheese.

I was looking for Bay, and looking for a place to wash my injured hand, which was hot and sore. I hung Sara’s scarf, sweater, and jacket on knobs in the entryway. There was a tray on which sat an orange-lettered plaque that said September, and a little box below with the plaques for the other months. I walked through a dining room, a meeting room, and four bedrooms. Each bedroom contained seven bunk beds heavy with pilled blankets. At the other end was the only room with a door, and the door had a lock. I knew because I tried to open it.