She does have too much to do, Sylvia assures herself. She’s got plenty to do. There’s disorder all around her. She isn’t even dressed. She’s got her manuscript waiting, letters she hasn’t answered. She should put on her blue jeans and paint—she can unpack boxes later with the children around. She could walk to a phone box and make some calls. Finish her shopping. What a relief to have so much to accomplish. Days and days of tasks to keep her busy. Not a moment to spare. She needs her mind to lose itself, to efface the sense of endangerment she now feels. To bring her back to this morning, its unfolding. Waking clean as a baby. The faster she completes all she has to do, the faster her new life can begin. She can scramble these eggs, golden in their bowl. She notices the satisfying ache of her hand beating in circles, the ribbon of egg lifting and falling.

Two children are chattering brightly at the table. Sylvia pours the eggs into a hot pan.

Ted’s hand is warming around his mug of tea. “Fried apples,” he says, sipping. “Are they ours?”

“Our very own,” she says with satisfaction, forgetting herself, the word ours in his rolling voice, a voice she hears in her sleep, dropping her into a groove so deep it takes her a moment to realize she’s suddenly become a ghost from her past life. Then she stiffens. Something closes on her. She turns to face him.

“I didn’t bring enough for you,” she stammers.

He watches her, not understanding.

“The apples. I only filled one bag—for the children. I mean, I didn’t bring enough to send off with you. I left the rest at Court Green.”

Ted is watching her face contort. He doesn’t look angry. Angry, in fact, is not how he looks at all. He looks, finally, as though he recognizes her.

“That’s all right,” he says. “I didn’t expect you to. I didn’t even think of it.”

Another moment passes. They listen to bubbles forming at the edges of the eggs, the sound strangely projecting, for each of them, from somewhere behind the other’s face.

“You should have some now,” she ventures. “You didn’t have this year’s Bramleys. Have some eggs with the children.”

The plates scrape against each other as she reaches into the box at her feet.

*   *   *