“Are you talking about a desire to vomit, miss?”

“Oh, Raj, I can’t really…be having this conversation.” She had snapped at him, and felt bad.

“Sorry, miss.”

All at once a sense of unreality and grief washed through her. Where was Oliver? Who was this person sitting here? “Don’t call me miss. You’ve been here four months. Call me Ruth.”

“Ruth. Is that short for something?”

“It’s short for Ruth Winters. Rajiv, you are a natterer, aren’t you.”

She got up and checked the meatloaf. It was ready and she served dinner.

The boy sat quietly.

“How was your day today?” She was trying to regain her composure. He rested his eyes upon her, such intelligent, complicated eyes for one still so young.

“Annie got into a fight because someone called me a name. She got a black eye.”

“Well, I’m sure Frank will have something to say about that. Who was it?”

“Some ginger-haired kid.”

“What did he say?”

“Called me some names, that’s all.”

“Did you feel bad about Annie getting hit?”

He nodded. “I wish she hadn’t done anything.”

He picked at his food.

“Don’t you like meatloaf?”

He thought about it. “It doesn’t provoke my desire, miss.”

“Ruth,” she said harshly. “Stop calling me miss; it makes me feel a hundred years old.”

He went quiet, staring down into his untouched meal.

She snatched away his plate. “I’ll get you some apple pie.”

He continued to stare down into the place where his plate had been, hunched over as if he were praying. She felt almost dizzy: angry, helpless, guilty, grief-stricken, unable to deal with this, with him. She clattered the whole apple pie down on the table.

“Take it to your room. Have as much as you want,” she said. “Just eat as much as you want.”

His body hunched a little more, as if he were bracing himself. She could see his long eyelashes, the very fact of which seemed a reproach. She felt monstrous. Suddenly he pushed away from the table and hurried to his room. She remained in the kitchen for a moment and thought about going to him. She wanted to. She did want to, but she was sure she would break down, and she couldn’t have him see her cry like that. Snatching up her coat, she left, walking the two miles to the cattail swamp. She sat against a tree, listening to the drowning trill of the red-winged blackbirds, watching the midges and dragonflies, the cattails catching fire in the last sun, blazing unconsumed, memory, nostalgia, the last light of each day drawn deep into the earth.

When she returned, she saw that the boy had eaten a piece of the pie and had cleaned up the kitchen. It was spotless.