I did want to. I wanted to very badly. So I got up and walked across the room and sat down and set my fingers on the keys.

I remembered what to do next. It came back to me. I played “Someone to Watch Over Me” from beginning to end without faltering. I knew just which keys to press, when to pause, and when to speed up. I played softly because, upstairs, children were sleeping. I finished and crossed back to the chair. I wondered if they could see me blushing, but I didn’t really mind if they did.

“We knew we picked well,” Julia said.

“Yes,” Terry said. “Now tell us who taught you to play like that.”

So I told them that I had lived with my mother and my grandparents for most of my childhood, until I turned thirteen and my mom and I moved in with Blake. “My grandmother loved to play the piano and she was a really good teacher. I don’t even remember trying to play, or messing up, or worrying about whether I was doing it right. I just remember her fingers on the keys and her telling me to follow.”

“And what happened to your grandparents?” Terry asked.

“They died sometime after we moved out. In a car accident.”

“And we heard that your mother . . .” Julia trailed off, waiting for me to finish the sentence.

“She left,” I said. “After the fire.” I traced the bird again, and then the branch it perched on, and the leaves that sprouted from the branch. By the time I looked up I was able to meet their faces. “I don’t want to talk about the fire if that’s okay.”

“That’s just fine,” Julia said.

“Your past is your own,” Terry said.

I nodded. We sat quietly for a minute or two. Julia said, “Thank you for playing for us. Thank you for your openness.” She stood up and stretched her arms over her head. “It’s past nine already. I’m going to check on the children. They’re so looking forward to meeting you in the morning.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting them, too.”

“Let’s get you some provisions,” Terry said. “It’s always nice to have something in case you want a midnight snack without crossing the field. And then we’ll go to your cabin and I’ll show you how to heat it.”

In the kitchen, he handed me a basket and offered me oranges and a loaf of bread and cookies. “And now,” he said, once the basket was full, “we cross the field to the third cabin.” He gestured to the window, then stopped. I followed his gaze but at first all I saw was our reflection, standing beneath a light in the kitchen: a tall Black man with an expression of wonder, a lonely white girl trying to make sense of the dark.