“Well,” Francine said, “you dodged a bullet.”

“That’s what Joellen says.”

“And adoption, if it’s the best and only option for the child, is a wonderful first resort.”

“Joellen says that, too.”

“Joellen is right.”

I scooped Terry’s sore little body to my lap, and Francine held his paw in her hand.

“My poor baby,” I said. “What would your mommy have done without you?”

“Lucky us,” Francine whispered loudly to him. “What would we do without our Muiriel?”

That night I pulled a clean T-shirt from my suitcase and saw that some things I hadn’t worn in a while were getting wrinkled, crowded with the pillowcase of shame, which I held for a moment, feeling the weight of the things inside, and then shoved back in, beneath my shoes.

Not a big deal to just put some more clothes in a drawer. Below the one with the new clothes. In the bathroom, I put my shampoo in the shower, my soap on the sink.

Just for convenience’s sake.

Chapter Nineteen

IN JANE’S SALISHWOOD OFFICE on the last Saturday in April, she sat on her desk and did not fire me, which I’d assumed she’d been trying to do, only delicately. Getting rid of Natan couldn’t have been fun for her family life. Our interactions, and hers and Sean’s, still stayed politely professional. Just the way I liked it, but less touchy-feely than I think she preferred. I’d assumed my days in the forest were numbered, and the thought of losing this dream—though unpaid—job kept me awake most nights and broke my heart, but instead she said, “What are you planning to do after graduation? Where will you be?”

I wished I had an answer better than I will be in Seattle, which is too expensive but is the place I know best with viable job options, trying to cobble together as many part-time gigs as I can while I search for a room to rent, so to sum up: I will be in the world testing out survival techniques, trying to not be homeless.

“I’m asking,” Jane said, “because two of our master’s candidates are graduating, leaving room in the budget for a paid position—part-time, no benefits, but overtime on weekends. Any chance I could convince you to take it?”

“Excuse me,” I said. “What now?”

—

Kira set an entire cake, white and fragrant, on the kitchen table before Francine and Sean and me. And four forks.

“Does a part-time job with no benefits really warrant an entire cake?” I asked, already reaching for my fork.

“It does when it’s this job,” Sean said.

“If,” Francine said, “it’s a job that does not interfere with a person’s finals or torpedo her GPA in the last month before she graduates from high school, then yes. That is entirely cake-worthy.”

“Francine,” I said. “No potential employer is going to look at my GPA. If I have a diploma, that’s all they’ll care.”

“Okay, but colleges do, and—”