“Are they both for me?” she asked.

I nodded. Felt how the blood rushed to my face. “The milk is for the children,” I repeated softly.

“But I don’t mind sharing,” Lou said.

“Thank you,” I said. “But it is apparently for you.” I stared over at Marguerite as I said it.

She held her head tilted to one side, studying me, as if I were a stupid little man-child.

“Happy now?” I wanted to say, but stopped myself. It was better to keep my mouth shut.

“I don’t need two,” Lou said, pushing the glass toward me again.

And I wanted milk, I did. It was cold for sure, would cool my throat, my stomach. It was the only thing we received that was cold. So I took it, quickly. “You’re nice, Lou,” I said.

Marguerite emitted a tiny sound. I didn’t care. My daughter knew how to share, had learned to share. That meant something, anyway. I took a sip of the milk, waiting for the coldness, but it had already had time to become lukewarm. We’ve used up all the cold, I thought.

It was Marguerite’s fault. She poked her nose in without knowing anything about us.

August was only a year old. Lou had never really experienced having a sibling. A baby in the house didn’t count. A baby didn’t argue about sweets, a baby didn’t want to have the biggest piece of cake. All the same, or perhaps for that very reason, she was good at sharing.

“Have a seat,” Lou said to Marguerite.

“She probably wants to eat in peace,” I said.

“Why’s that?” Lou said to Marguerite, who sat down. Or more precisely—took her seat. On the bench beside Lou, an appropriate distance away from her, as if she weren’t really together with us.

Silence. I didn’t want to be the first one to speak. But it was very quiet. Perhaps I should say something.

She didn’t.

But none of the questions I was accustomed to asking—How’s it going? How about this weather? Have you had a nice day?—were appropriate, somehow. What do you talk about in a refugee camp? How do you make small talk when your life has gone to hell?

And small talk—that wouldn’t hold any appeal for somebody like Marguerite. She would just laugh at me. No, she would smile, a crooked smile. Best to avoid it.

I put my faith in Lou. She would succeed in lightening the mood. But she was too busy satisfying her hunger. She gulped down her food, even licked the bowl clean.

In the end it was actually Marguerite who broke the silence. “They haven’t received supplies. That’s why there’s so little.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I’ve been at a place like this before. In the mountains. That was the first thing that happened, the supplies stopped arriving.”

“The first thing that happened before what?”

“Before we all left.”

“It will be fine,” I said, hollowly. I didn’t want to have this conversation with her while Lou was listening.