Calliope’s gut lurched, not only from the revolting task but from the name Eunjoo still called her, a name that shattered her every time. “No thanks, chica. I’ll leave the fun work to you.”

Eunjoo turned the stomach inside out and washed it until the water turned cream-colored. Calliope did help mix the stuffing, pouring cornmeal and salt into the jar of blood, then adding diced potatoes, chiles, and fat. She excused herself as Wowo łashhi and the staunch little girl each clutched clumps of the mottled glop and crammed it into the long, limp intestine like filling an empty pantyhose with playdough. Eunjoo and Wowo łashhi reminded Calliope of herself as a young girl cooking with Bisabuela, minus the stinky bloody smell. Eunjoo had made this mess many times with Wowo łashhi, and each time Calliope had helped the girl wash the clotted blood from under her fingernails.

Wowo łashhi called to Chance in Zuni, and Calliope understood that she was asking him to fire up the grill outside; she wanted him to broil the sausages. Calliope’s Zuni was very poor, but she understood more and more each day, often practicing with Chance in the evenings.

He came into the kitchen, Miwe e’le in his arms. Her face was stained orange and her clothes were covered in mashed sweet potato. Calliope laughed as he handed the corn girl over.

“Feeding the baby is serious business,” he said, kissing her cheek, perhaps as ruse to whisper in her ear, “I need to talk to you, mujer. After the barbecue.”

She nodded.

Aloud, to Eunjoo, he said, “Those smell delicious, little bird.”

Calliope wrinkled her nose at the strong smell of iron.

He grabbed the plate and wafted it in front of her face, teasing her. “I’ll save the biggest sausages for you, mujer.”

“Please do,” Calliope joked back, plastering an overzealous smile to her face. “You know how much I love them.”

“You know how much I love you,” he countered, his voice cracking where it should have been playful.

Eunjoo watched them, a curious expression on her face, as she’d done each day for the past several months. Calliope never asked if she understood. She was sure Eunjoo understood much more than even Calliope did. She must have, for she never brought up Andres, and when Malia had asked her who Phoenix was, she said her imaginary friend, which had nearly gutted Calliope, but she’d nodded along, agreeing what an imaginative child Eunjoo was, and that imaginary friends might well be Spirits nearby, protecting the young ones, answering the corn blessing and turquoise prayers.

“I’ll be in our room cleaning this messy corn girl.”

Eunjoo asked, “Can I go outside and play with Nastacio?” Chance’s little nephew, a year older than Eunjoo, who had turned seven in January. It must have been almost Phoenix’s seventh birthday. Calliope’s heart pelted each time she thought about it—about missing it.