I was finding mine.
Faraday had gone silent. I looked up at her.
“Sorry for staring,” she said.
“It’s okay, dear.” The connection between me and the ghosts was already fading.
“I know how close you and Peter were,” she said.
“Yes.” Killing is a kind of closeness.
I heard something in the barn, and turned.
Framed by the back door was a girl, nine years old. A fat white rabbit twitched in her arms, its pink eyes giving me a baleful stare.
“Mary,” I said. She’d grown since winter break.
“That’s my name.” She came toward us, the rabbit’s hind legs swinging. “Who’s that?”
I stood up, dusting my knees. “This is Faraday, my friend from college.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mary. Cute rabbit!”
Mary came to a halt, presented the creature. “Her name is Trotsky.”
“Ha!” Faraday smirked at me. “Should’ve known you were lefties, living on a commune like this.”
I didn’t explain that the connection was not political. Mary liked ice picks.
“She’s looking healthy,” I said.
Mary held the rabbit up high. “She’s heavy now, but I carry her everywhere. When I finally put her down, I’ll be stronger.”
“More fun than lifting weights,” Faraday said.
“You might see a few kids with rabbits this weekend,” I told her. “It’s a Morton thing, called a mors curae. You have to feed them, clean up after them, protect them from the dogs for a whole year. Like a baby.”
“Until her big day!” Mary cried.
Faraday smiled. “You’re such aresponsiblekid.”
Mary shifted the struggling Trotsky into the crook of her arm. She was staring at Faraday, studying what made her different from us.
“Were you looking for us?” I asked.
“Uh-huh. Uncle Cyrus wants you to visit.”
I looked at Faraday. “Peter’s father.”
“Peter died,” Mary said with gentle wonder.
Faraday gave her a soft smile. “Can I hold Trotsky?”
“I’msupposed to take care of her.”
“I promise to be very careful.”
Mary looked up at me, and I gave her a nod. She huffed a little sigh, then thrust the rabbit into Faraday’s waiting hands.
