“Well,” I said, considering. “That’s probably true.”

“I suppose you could call me Winnie until we leave,” said Winifred. “If that’s what you prefer.”

“Oh, I have no preferences about what I call you until you leave. When,” I asked trickily, “do you suppose that will be?”

“I don’t know. Mother didn’t say. I know she is worried about Daddy doing something stupid, but she didn’t say what. She didn’t really tell us much of anything.”

“Didn’t you want to ask?”

“Mother is a worrier. She always thinks everyone is going to do something catastrophic, but they never do. As soon as she figures out Daddy is okay, she’ll be back.”

“Oh well,” I said. “Let’s go get the eggs.”

We ran down to the chicken coop. There are cooperative hens and uncooperative hens. I schooled Winifred on how to approach them and which ones were liable to give her a hard time; nevertheless, the first time one of them flew at her and pecked, she went shrieking from the chicken coop and stood outside the door continuing to shriek hysterically. I wondered if this were her yet-unseen Crying Alice side. Mind you, we’ve all had our bad chicken days.

“What a horrid, horrid bird,” she said when she got her breath.

I regarded the one who had gone for her levelly and said, “Yes, and I’ll show you what we do with horrid birds.” I approached the hen, grabbed it authoritatively by the ankles, and put it into a cage at the corner of the coop.

“Is that to keep it from pecking people?” she asked, coming back into the coop hesitantly.

“Sort of,” I said. “I’m supposed to pick the worst layer every week and put it in the cage, and that’s Sunday supper. But, secretly, I put the one who is giving me the most trouble there.”

“I don’t think I can eat it,” said Winifred. “It’s a bit like not just taking no prisoners but eating your enemies.”

“I imagine you’ll change your mind when you smell Old Tom’s Sunday chicken. But never mind. Let’s candle and pack the eggs.”

Winifred and I went into the egg candling room on the side of the coop. She turned out to be an excellent egg candler once I showed her how to look for blood or meat spots by holding the egg in front of the light of the egg candler. She found several eggs with ominous spots and we packed them separately. Those were the eggs we kept at home because Sina said they were just fine to eat if you weren’t so terribly squeamish about these things. Winifred didn’t break a single egg. Then we went in to get washed before going to Brookman’s. I followed her upstairs. She had blood from the pecking on her shirt and wanted to change.

“I’ll be in the cupola,” I said. “Call me when you’re ready to go.”

I need to check in there fairly often. Not to write, not to look for whales with my telescope, but just to be in there, the room where things might happen. As if I can go in there and feel those things waiting.