“I would say you’re getting warmer.”

She tilts her head, peering at me. “So, you’re a bit sassy as well. I detect a streak of antiauthoritarianism mixed in with a singular intelligence and practiced indifference. A regular Treplev.”

“Well, I’m not exactly used to being compared to male characters from Chekhov, but I’ll take it.”

“Ha! You do not disappoint. Alright, what state? I happen to know you can’t be from further than Idaho.”

“I’m from Nebraska.”

“Really? I never knew anyone was actually from Nebraska. So it does exist. And people really are from there. Fascinating.”

It’s a funny thing to have someone so casually diminish everything about you. It would be insulting, I bet, to someone who took pride in where they were from. Or, for that matter, took pride in anything about themselves. Luckily, no pride here.

“Um . . .” I take to looking at my nails. “I guess I’m actually wondering who you are and why you are, um, here.”

“Obviously, I’m a serial killer. Sent to add you to my collection of trophies. I concentrate on rare and exotic breeds from the middling states.”

How did she know I was thinking—

She winks.

This wink might delight someone who is not me.

“It’s just that I was told this would be kind of a solitary endeavor.”

“And one has to wonder why a spry little girl of seventeen would want to spend her precious, singular, post-senior-year summer in such a dreary, lonesome place,” she quips.

“I guess one would.”

“She holds her cards close to her chest, does she?” I take it the “she” in this statement is me. “Well, my name’s Penelope. Penelope Crisp. Penelope Persephone Crisp, if you’re curious.” She turns to me, suddenly. “And what about college?”

“What about it?” I ask.

“Are you, my dear, planning on attending a four-year institution wherein you might master the complexities of history, physics, or underwater basket-weaving? Or do you plan on forging a career of caretaking dreary estates for the rest of your life?”

Suddenly she remembers something and begins rummaging through her bag, gliding into the pantry. I follow her, confused. But as she is speaking, she keeps reaching in and out of her bag, piling up mason jars on the shelves.

She notices my questioning gaze and in response simply says, “Oh, jam, you see. I always have extra so I just give it to the professor. You will absolutely love it. Apricot preserves. Strawberry, of course. Blueberry. And even a kumquat one; I thought I’d try my hand.”

I quit counting jars at eight, but she certainly doesn’t stop retrieving them. I guess if there’s a zombie apocalypse, I can just survive on jam.

“And college? What are your plans?” she repeats.

I sidle into the hallway, not really wanting to tell her my entire life story, or even a fourth of it.

“Well? Have we given up already? No college?”

She really doesn’t mince words, does she?

“I’m expected to attend college in the fall,” I acquiesce.