I turned my head to the pillow, not wanting to be heard. Outside, it was daylight still, and Billy and Liz were naked in her cabin, and Julia was tending to her flowers, and Terry was most likely warming the oven for dinner. Maybe the little ones were playing ring-around-the-rosy. Maybe a flock of birds flew overhead. Maybe the ghosts were waking up. But I was alone in my tiny cabin. Alone in the rise and the shudder.

Alone in the quiet after.

___

That evening, I paused just outside the door of the main house. In the soft pink light, the field glowed a deep green. Rays of sunlight shone through clouds. I heard voices inside, lively and relaxed with the start of the weekend.

As soon as I entered, Billy touched my arm. “Mila, hey. I want to teach you to make butter. Interested?”

“Yes,” I said.

“After, we can slice the loaves together. I’ll show you all my tricks,” Liz said, an uncommon ease about her. She leaned a hip against the cabinet and smiled.

“Sounds good,” I answered.

“First,” Billy said, “grab the bottle of cream from the refrigerator.”

I did as he told me to, grateful for the blast of cold on my face. When I turned back, Liz was watching me.

“Something’s up,” she said.

“No,” I said. “Just . . . I spent a while lesson planning. Then I took a nap. I’m just a little out of it, I guess.”

“Hmm,” she said.

We were only three people, standing in the kitchen, I told myself. It didn’t need to be complicated.

To Billy, I said, “What’s next?”

“You pour it into a mason jar, make sure the lid’s on tight. And then you shake. Forever.”

I laughed. “It sounds like you just want me to do the work.” And they both laughed along with me.

Liz hopped up onto the counter, her bare feet dangling. “She’s figured you out, Billy.”

“No, but it’s so satisfying. It starts out liquid and turns into butter. It’s a miracle.” His words were hyperbolic, but I could tell that he meant them. Liz rolled her eyes.

I shook the bottle until my arm got sore, then I switched hands and shook again. After a few minutes Liz offered to take a turn. I handed her the jar and noticed the gold chain around her wrist again, delicate but substantial.

“Your bracelet’s so pretty.”

“Thanks. Terry and Julia gave it to me.” She didn’t meet my eye when she said it, and then she was shaking the cream, fast.

“Be sure to give it to Mila before it’s too late,” Billy said. She did, and I experienced the moment he had described: One second I was shaking a liquid and the next it thumped in the jar.

“Open it up,” he told me. “See the wet stuff? That’s buttermilk.”

“So cool.”