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After nursing him, she dresses him for the day—the pins for the cloth diapers are driving her crazy—and heads into the kitchen. Her head feels a little fuzzy. She prays coffee is allowed here.
Kids chatter at the table, eating oatmeal and fruit. Amy, a shovel propped on her shoulder, crosses the room for the fridge. Ann writes something on the chore board, her fingers covered in chalk. Once again, the lazy retriever waits by her side like an extension of her skeleton. Coral stands at the stove, shaking a pan full of chopped onions. Matilda is next to her, whispering in her ear.
“Those two,” murmurs a voice.
Lenna turns. One of the twins—Melissa? Naomi?—has sidled next to her, crossing her arms. “Sometimes I think they’re a littletooclose.”
Lenna studies the woman, trying to figure out which one she is. “What do you mean?”
“I just think they should branch out. There are other people here, a few other teens. But hey, I guess it’s human nature to want to make a best friend.” She smiles at Lenna. “Want coffee? I made some.” She points at a restaurant-grade coffee urn in the corner. “It’s one of our luxuries, one of the few things we get off property.”
“Yes,” Lenna says, holding her hands out for a mug. And then she spies a square on the chore chart:Coffee: Melissa.
Melissa pours Lenna a cup, then claps her hands and announces to the little kids that it’s school time. Dutifully, the kids rise and follow her into a back hall.
A moment later, Marjorie bangs in from outside, stripping off a pair of gardening gloves. Sweat pours down her face. “Okay, let’s go over what we need to do for the day,” she calls out.
Everyone who remains settles at the table, which is still cluttered with the kids’ breakfast dishes. The sight of congealed oatmeal and thready orange peels turns Lenna’s stomach; she resists the urge to grab everything and stack it neatly in the sink. She glances around, looking for Rhiannon—and there she is, coming through the doorway. When she spies Lenna, she smiles and drifts over.
“I looked for you in your room. Didn’t realize you were already up.”
“Just came out.” Lenna holds up her coffee cup. “So glad for this.”
“You didn’t sleep well?” She touches the baby’s cheek. “He certainly seems to be in a good mood.”
“We slept amazingly, actually.” Lenna laughs. “Almosttoogood. Am I still dreaming?”
Rhiannon waves her hand. “It’s our dark, cold rooms. They make for really restful sleep cycles.”
Behind them, someone snorts. Lenna turns around, not sure who it was. Ann is fixing something on the dog’s collar. Coral and Matilda don’t seem to be listening.
Marjorie consults the chore board and picks up a piece of chalk. “Okay, so Ann’s nearly done. Started before dawn.” She tallies a score next to Ann’s name. “Naomi, you’ve got the greenhouse.” Lenna follows Marjorie’s gaze—and there is Naomi, leaning in the doorway to the outside, peeling an orange. “Rhiannon, how about you start on the laundry?”
“On it,” Rhiannon says.
“And Amy.” Marjorie leans back and assesses the board. “You’re on goats. Why don’t you take Lenna?”
Amy, who is at the head of the table, peers around the women until she finds Lenna. She gives her a thumbs-up. Lenna feels a surge of panic. She turns to Rhiannon.
“Can’t I do laundry with you?”
Rhiannon makes a face. “The kids’ clothes are disgusting. And dirty diapers? Blegh.”
“But…”
“Seriously. Goats with Amy is super fun. You’ll love it.”
Rhiannon pats Lenna’s shoulder, then turns and heads out of the room. Lenna rests on her heels, the taste of coffee acidic in her mouth. Is Rhiannon avoiding her? She thinks again about that strange, whispered conversation…and also the questions Lenna forced on her.We’ll talk about all of it. Just not now.
“Ready?” Amy asks.
Lenna jumps. “Um.” She watches as Coral brushes around her and starts stacking the breakfast dishes. At least that’s being taken care of, anyway. Then she glances one more time toward the door through which Rhiannon disappeared. It seems she has no choice.
“Sure,” she says, turning back to Amy. “Let’s go.”
The mountains glow this morning. They pass a spray of succulents on their way to the goat pen; some of them have colorful flowers jutting out the tops among their jagged spines. A field of saguaros waits quietly, in silhouette, their arms poking, backlit by the sun. They’re beautiful in their starkness. They pass lemon trees, too, planted on a small patch of scrub grass.
“Those smell delicious,” Lenna admits, breathing in the scent of the lemons as they pass. A few have fallen to the ground, their juices spilling. A fly buzzes lazily around.
