Lily climbed onto the bed.
"Mama made lots of quilts."
Thomas's eyes lowered.
Anna immediately understood that his wife was dead.
Lily continued in the innocent way children sometimes did when grief had become part of everyday life.
"She died when I was four. I remember her singing but not all of her face unless I look at the picture."
Thomas's jaw tightened.
"Lily, let Miss Miller rest."
Anna looked at the girl.
"You can call me Anna."
"Then you can call me Lily."
Thomas collected himself.
"Good night."
Anna closed the door after they left.
Then she sat on the bed.
For several minutes she did nothing.
She listened.
Lily talking in the room across the hall.
Thomas telling her it was time to sleep.
Lily asking another question.
Thomas answering.
Floorboards creaking.
The house settling.
Then quiet.
Anna opened her suitcase.
She removed her mother's Bible and placed it on the bedside table.
When she pulled out the bundle of letters, another paper slipped loose.
A photograph.
Anna and her father stood beside the porch of the Miller farm.
It had been taken two summers earlier.
Her father looked thin even then.
Anna looked happy.
Behind them stood a white farmhouse and three apple trees.
All gone.
She turned the photograph facedown.
Then she opened the Bible.
Her mother's handwriting remained inside the cover.
To Anna, so that you always know where to find home when the world feels uncertain.
Anna stared at the words.
A bitter laugh almost escaped her.
Her mother had believed home was something a person could carry spiritually.
Anna had spent the last year learning how much shelter required a roof.
She closed the book.
Then she cried.
Quietly.
Not because the Reed house was cruel.
Because it was kind.
Cruelty could be resisted.
Kindness was far more dangerous when someone had almost forgotten what it felt like.
She slept until sunlight reached the foot of the bed.
For a few seconds after waking, Anna did not know where she was.
Then she heard Lily downstairs.
"Daddy, you're burning them."
"I'm not burning them."
"They're black."
"They're browned."
"Black is not brown."
Anna covered her mouth to stop herself from laughing.
She dressed and went downstairs.
Thomas stood at the stove glaring at three pancakes.
Lily looked relieved when Anna entered.
"Can you cook?"
"Lily," Thomas said.
Anna approached the stove.
"I can."
"Good."
Thomas pointed the spatula at his daughter.
"You are ungrateful."
Lily whispered to Anna, "They're black."
Anna made breakfast.
Not because anyone demanded it.
Because she wanted to.
She found flour, eggs, milk, and a little jar of preserved berries.
Within half an hour, the kitchen smelled completely different.
Thomas ate four pancakes.
Lily ate three and asked whether Anna could live there forever.
Thomas nearly choked on his coffee.
Anna looked down.
"Lily."
"What?"
"We talked about this."
"No, you talked. I listened."
Thomas rubbed his forehead.
Anna smiled faintly.
"I need to return to town today."
Lily's face fell.
Thomas looked at Anna.
"Do you have somewhere to go?"
"No."
The word embarrassed her.
She forced herself to continue.
"But I need to find employment."
Thomas considered.
"I have to go into town tomorrow for feed. You could stay another night and ride in then."