She turns and forces her feet to move until they arrive at the kitchen. She washes her hands at the sink and opens the cupboard and stares at the cans of clam chowder. Three rows of them, stacked neatly. She removes one and pries the lid off and heats the soup in a saucepan. Her hands tremble. She tries to stop them. He doesn’t know anything. He’s just a man. Not worse. Salt and pepper. The bowl on a plate. Saltine crackers, get a spoon. She brings it to him by the fire. Her hands steady.

“Your favorite.”

“My little bird. Thank you.”

“I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”

She turns and walks to the foyer. His voice follows her.

“My bird. You’re a good girl. Aren’t you?”

She goes upstairs to the bathroom and locks the door. She is shaking. She is not low-key. Not in order. She washes her hands. Her wrist. The black heart. She scrubs, scratches. Rinses, soaps again. But it is not enough. Sometimes it isn’t.

She checks the door to be sure. Then she takes off her clothes and steps in the shower. She turns the water to hot. So hot it stings her skin. She washes everything. Hair, face, arms, legs. Head to toe. She scrubs. To get off the dirt. Until the calm begins to come. Until she is sure that she is okay. Then she washes again.

She wraps herself in a towel and dries and puts on a pajama shirt and a pair of shorts. She doesn’t lock the bedroom door. He will come in either way. He will wait until later. Come in and sit in the chair. She folds back the covers and lifts the pillow and there underneath lies her little monkey. Brown fur. One of the ears has come loose. She picks him up and crawls under the sheet and pulls the blankets around her.

She will go to sleep.

Go to sleep. Just close your eyes. You’ll be all right.

He doesn’t know anything.

Jack.

Sweet Jack.

Little Matty.

You will keep it together.

They need you.

She holds the monkey tight.

XXXII

I once told you that to understand the truth, you have to start at the beginning. But where is that, really?

The path to truth is crooked

and time itself a circle.

Come and see.

The earth is caked with new snow, and the slow pearly light of dawn covers everything. The sky, the frozen fields. The tree boughs frosted with tiny crystals at the tips. Ava is seven years old. For the first time, her father has taken her hunting.

He is teaching her. He is teaching her what life is about.

“Here is a nice spot—good line of sight,” he says. “There’ll be something on that hill.”