Maggie dipped even lower in the chair and avoided Sam’s gaze, half-wishing she wore a sign that read, DON’T ASK ME, a generic notification to ward off anyone asking for anything or anyone asking about anything: Jane, the aunt, Sam, her mother, Linnie, Ran, everyone. A big PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE.

“I need to get going. Dad’s teaching tonight.” Glancing over his shoulder, Sam growled in disgust. “I’ll have to start over on the damn base now.” He rubbed his forehead with both hands, smearing a powdery white over his brown skin. “If I can just get the other half home without breaking it…”

He looked so defeated and miserable that Maggie couldn’t help it—she felt bad for him. “Is it something I can hold on my lap?” she asked reluctantly. Holding she could do. Babysitting Kate—not so much. “I’ll just walk home afterward.” She perked up a little. Exercise would probably be good for her—fresh air to clear her thoughts. Plus, if she left with Sam, she could avoid the aunt who was now frowning at her, as if she’d suddenly remembered the interrupted heart-to-heart.

His face brightened. “That would be awesome. Thank you, Meg—um, Maggie.”

“If you wreck your piece, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Wren dropped the wire by her bucket and sighed. On a kinder note: “Why don’t you take off tomorrow morning? That’ll give you a few hours to sculpt while Kate’s at school. You can come back after lunch.”

“You sure?”

She nodded and cast the closed damp box a glum glance. “Not much for you to do here anyway while I work on that thing.” Wren waved away Sam’s thanks and watched Maggie drag herself to her feet. “Catch you later.” She widened her eyes meaningfully, a we-have-unfinished-business look.

Maggie frowned. Not if I can help it.

The aunt smiled. “And thanks for helping Sam, Megummaggie.”

The ride to the house next door seemed to take a long time. Sam’s project was big and busy, a conglomeration of jagged corners and voluptuous folds, and it was slightly malleable, too. (“Not quite leather-hard,” he’d said, situating it carefully on her lap.) Maggie was afraid to move.

As close as her face was to the groggy clay, she couldn’t get a good idea of what the sculpture was supposed to be but didn’t dare maneuver it. When Sam turned off the rutted Ash Drive and onto the slightly smoother length of the parkway, she finally blurted, “What is this?”

“A brain”—Sam gave his sculpture a pained look—“under duress. Not literally, of course. Like a metaphor for an internal geography, filled with bad shit.”

Huh. Maggie frowned at the piece.