I rushed down the hillside, slipped, and tore my only pair of jeans. And then I was on the foundation, pushing open the door to Blake’s room.

“Mila, I found you!”

Lee was trotting toward me from across the green. I dropped the box behind me. I didn’t want him to see it. “Liz said you might still be here. Dinner’s on the table.”

“Already?” I asked.

“Yeah, the sky’s dark. Don’t you see?”

I looked up. “Yes, I do.”

“You don’t feel well. It’s the ghosts, right?”

“I don’t know. I think I might be . . . I think I need to . . .”

“Just come have dinner and then you can go to bed early. Aren’t you hungry?”

“I’m hungry,” I said.

“Here,” he said. “We’ll walk slowly. I’ll hold your hand.”

___

Most everyone was already seated when I slid onto the edge of a bench. Dinner looked nourishing—butternut squash soup with olive oil and basil and cracked black pepper, warm bread, and salad—and I was suddenly ravenous.

Emma was next to me. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked.

“I’m a little tired,” I said.

“You seem kind of . . . off.”

“I just . . . haven’t been sleeping.”

“Okay.”

She handed me the salad bowl, her thin gold band catching the light.

I filled my plate with the garden lettuces and carrots and radishes and chives, smelled tarragon and the tang of apple cider vinegar. Julia set a bowl of soup at my place, followed by the bread and the fresh butter.

I wanted to be full, to be comforted. Billy was across the table with the little ones. Liz was in a corner, her face in shadow.

I took a spoonful of soup, expecting the familiar sweetness of it, but all I tasted was smoke. Maybe Terry had tried a new recipe. Maybe he’d charred the squash before pureeing it. I glanced around the table. The little ones were spooning big bites of soup into their mouths, dipping bread into their bowls and chewing. Liz took a spoonful. I saw her savor it, dip her spoon in again.

I would eat the salad instead. But despite the crunch of the lettuce and the scent of its dressing, it tasted burnt, too. I forced myself to swallow; my stomach churned. I gulped a sip of my water, but it didn’t wash the taste away. Instead, it somehow made it worse.

“Oh my God,” Jackson said. “Liz, tell everyone what you taught us today.”

Liz made some kind of joke and everyone laughed and she started telling her story.

The bread and the butter. They would be fine, and enough to fill me up. The butter melted as I spread it on the still-warm slice. I bit in, hungry and desperate, but it was worse than the others had been. It was ash in my mouth. Smoldering, sickening. I felt the press of memory.