"Well." Maggie picks up the bucket. "It's good that you've found a genre you enjoy. It'll get you through another weekend. Are you going back to the library tomorrow?"
"Yes. And to the supermarket and the coffee place. Decent coffee, good food, books — the holy trinity. I have a slight problem on Sunday though. Ruthie wants me to come to church."
Maggie's jaw drops and her eyes widen. "Are you serious?"
"Yeah. She thinks I'm a devout Christian now that she's seen me reading the Bible. She wants to pick me up from the motel. She brought it up again when I went to get coffee this morning and I have no idea how to get out of it."
Maggie laughs so hard the water sloshes over the bucket she's holding.
"It's not funny."
"It's so funny." She sets the bucket down before it goes everywhere, leans against the henhouse doorway, and presses the heel of her hand against her eye. "Oh god. I needed that."
"Maggie, I need to come up with an excuse."
Maggie shakes her head with a humorous grin. "Sorry. There's nothing I can do for you. You booked yourself a pew the minute you slipped the Holy Bible's dust jacket over your naughty little novel."
26
MAGGIE
Icarry the casserole dish out and set it in the middle of the table on the trivet I made in seventh-grade shop class — a square of varnished pine with my initials burned into the corner. Mom follows behind me with the bowl of couscous in one hand and a salad in a wooden bowl tucked under her other arm. Luis stands up but he knows better than to offer to take anything from her. He just clears space on the table.
"Moroccan vegetable casserole. Or Tagine, as they call it," Mom says, setting her things down. "And couscous. And a salad with tomatoes from my garden."
Dale takes his cap off and puts it on the bench beside him. "Smells great, Mrs. Dawson."
"Thank you, Dale." She goes back into the kitchen and comes out a minute later with a bottle of wine and four glasses.
"What's that?" I ask.
"That, Margaret, is a bottle of wine."
"I can see it's a bottle of wine. I mean what's it for? You never bring wine."
Mom smiles and takes a seat opposite me. "We're having a little celebration."
"What are we celebrating?" Luis asks.
Mom fishes a bottle opener out of her jeans pocket and works the cork out. "We are celebrating," she says, "the fact that I went over the books this morning and Dawson's Sanctuary is no longer struggling."
I frown. "What?"
Mom nods, her smile widening. "We're not just not-broke. We are, by our standards, very comfortable. The donations account has had its best two months in the sanctuary's history and the trend is still climbing. I had a look at our outgoings against the projected income — feed, vet, repairs, the new costs for the emus — and we are good for the next two years even if not another dollar comes in."
"Two years?"
"Two years." She pours wine into Luis's glass first, then Dale's, then mine, then her own. "To the sanctuary," she says when our glasses meet in the middle.
"Gloria, that's amazing but how?" Dale asks. "I mean — what changed?"
"Sloane Archer," I say when everything starts to make sense.
"Yeah," Mom agrees. "The crash, the publicity, the whole thing. It started the day after the accident — the donations went up, sharply, and they haven't stopped. Once something goes viral, people find you."
There's a small, slightly stunned silence. Dale dishes himself a portion of casserole.
"Look at this," Mom says. "I did a little research." She pulls her phone from her purse.
