“Your mother’s under the weather today,” Poppa told Nate. “I figured I’d stick around to help Rufus with the milking, see you and your sister off to school.” He took out his wallet and handed his grandson two one-dollar bills. “This enough to buy yourselves some lunch?”

“Plenty,” Nate told him. “I need to go talk to Mom.”

“Listen, honey,” Aunt Sal told him. “Your mom had a rough time yesterday. I don’t want you to bother her. Just try to put all this business out of your mind for a little while.”

Junie came down then. She was wearing a red-and-navy-plaid kilt and a green-and-yellow-striped turtleneck, with a pair of orange tights that had a run. She had put her hair in pigtails, but not very even ones. Her face, as she surveyed the room, looked troubled.

“Where’s Mom?”

“I thought I’d make you breakfast today,” Aunt Sal told her. “Your mom was so tired, I told her to stay in bed.”

“She better not stay tired too long,” Junie said. “We’re supposed to go shopping for my birthday party invitations after school. She promised.”

Listening to his sister’s small, hopeful voice, watching his aunt set down the pitcher of syrup on the old familiar oilcloth, and seeing his grandfather turning the pages of the paper as he studied the grain futures, Nate felt like he’d wandered into a room full of aliens. Yesterday they’d seen bloodhounds snapping at his father’s heels and his blood dripping on the snow. Wasn’t anyone here going to talk about that?

“Maybe your mother will take you to buy your cards another time,” Poppa told her, but Junie didn’t want to hear it.

“We’re going after school,” she said firmly.

The three of them sat in silence. Junie studied the cereal box, sounding out words. Nate reached for the orange juice and drank straight from the carton. If his mother had been there, she would have told him not to, but Poppa said nothing.

“Chilly morning,” Aunt Sal said, joining them at the table. “I hope you two are dressed warmly enough.”

Like getting a cold would be such a tragedy, Nate thought bitterly, gazing at his uneaten cereal. Like that was the worst thing that could happen.

“These Cheerios sure are tasty,” his aunt went on, reaching for the box. “I think I may just have to pour myself another bowl.”

Nate stared at the tablecloth: plump apples and pears tumbling across a sunny yellow background. A picture came to him suddenly, like a random slide that might have dropped into the projector by mistake, of himself picking up his plate and smashing it on the ground.

He looked at his sister pouring milk over her cereal, one of her model horses arranged beside the bowl as if he were drinking from it. “I’m bringing Buster for show-and-tell,” she said.