The difference between our cramped old kitchen with the peeling linoleum floor and stained countertops and the Townsends’ is pretty stark. Their sink probably cost more than what our entire kitchen is worth. But he doesn’t say it in a snobby way, just observational.

“What are you stirring in there, Rachel? It smells delicious.”

“Tomato sauce,” I say.

“Homemade? Well, that’s impressive. I don’t think I’ve ever met a kid who knew how to cook her own sauce.”

I smile. “It’s not very hard.”

“Team effort,” my dad says. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

My mom gives my dad a sideways glance that means he’s gonna get in trouble later.

“Oh, no, no. But thank you! I just stopped by to give Rachel her check for the week.”

He hands me an envelope. “I think Ferdinand was disappointed when I showed up to walk him this afternoon. He really missed you!”

“I bet Lucy didn’t miss her,” Ivy says.

“Lucy doesn’t miss anyone. She’s a pig with attitude. But not for long! Which reminds me, there’s no way Greer and I will be able to use all the meat. We’d be happy to give you some pork and bacon.”

Ivy gives me an urgent look, as if she expects me to speak up on Lucy’s behalf.

“Oh,” my mom says. “Thank you.”

Ivy nudges me. This is my Charlotte’s Web moment. But I’m no Fern. At least not tonight.

“I think she’s nice,” Ivy says when it becomes clear I’m no use.

“She’s really not so bad,” I say lamely.

“Girls, you know how farms work,” my mom says.

“Are . . . are you going to kill the other animals, too?” Ivy asks, ignoring her.

“Probably some chickens, eventually,” Mr. Townsend says awkwardly.

“Ivy, don’t make Mr. Townsend feel uncomfortable,” my mom says.

“There’s nothing wrong with raising your own food,” my dad says. “I’m sure that pig is having a much better life than most that are raised for meat.”

Mr. Townsend smiles but looks increasingly uncomfortable. “Right. Well, I should get back home. It was nice to see you all!”

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” my dad asks again.

But Mr. Townsend is already rushing out of the room.

“Have a nice weekend!” my mom calls.

I want to run after him and beg him not to kill Lucy. I start to step forward, but my mom pulls me back.

“Rachel, I know what you’re up to, and you can’t. Lucy is their pig, and they have every right to raise her for food.”

“But —”

“Rach,” my dad says. “It’s farm life.”

“Farm life sucks!” I yell.

“Shh. He might hear you,” my mom says.

“Poor Lucy,” Ivy says.

My mom pats her on the head, the way she usually pats me. “It’s just the life cycle, sweetie.”