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They shoveled all morning, if it was possible to call it morning. Night and day were still barely distinguishable. Dishcloths stretched over their noses and mouths and tied at the back of their heads. They guessed where the beds and the paths had been by the furrows and depressions in the dust. The work was thankless, endless. Evelyn felt as if they were trying to make a new world from some primordial clay that refused to be molded and was constantly slipping and drifting in the slightest breeze.

There was the sound of hammering from inside the house. She looked at Lily. Her sister was sitting on the lowest bough of Evelyn’s apple tree, reading her book. Dust between the pages. Dust between her fingers and toes.

What’s she doing? Lily said.

Evelyn shrugged.

They went up to the kitchen door. The lawn was a series of low dunes, like the brown peaks of a meringue. Evelyn was hungry, but her mouth felt too dry for her to eat anything. She went into the kitchen and found their mother fixing boards across the interior door. The rest of the kitchen was dark, but the sweat on her brow was lit red by the light from a candelabra, making her look like she was working at a forge.

What are you doing? Evelyn asked.

We have to stay in here from now on, her mother said. The rest of the house isn’t for us.

What about all our things? asked Evelyn.

I’ve moved everything we need down here, said their mother, gesturing to the opposite corner.

Evelyn squinted at a shapeless heap of clothes and blankets.

If we’re starting again, then we’re starting again, said their mother. We don’t need all that old tat.

Lily appeared in the doorway.

What’s happening? she asked.

Mama says we can’t go in the rest of the house anymore, said Evelyn.

Why not? asked Lily.

Stop yapping at me! said their mother.

She hammered another nail, harder than she needed to, into the board. Lily looked at Evelyn.

Why not? she said again. Why can’t we go into the house?

Because it is your father’s, said Mama. And it’s full of your father’s things. And his father’s things. And every bloody father before him.

Same goes for everything out there, said Mama, flinging an arm in some vague direction. Every man jack of them thinking they’re lord of the bloody manor. Well, the whole bloody manor’s on fire now, isn’t it.

The house is on fire? said Lily.

No, Lily. Don’t be an idiot.

Where is he?

Who?

Papa.

Your guess is as good as mine.

Their mother hammered the remaining nails into the corner of the board and came back with the candelabra. She set it on the table and mopped her brow with a rag. She looked thin, swamped by her woolen jumper.

Why are you looking at me like that? she said. Your father left us. Didn’t I tell you he would? Didn’t I say?

Evelyn nodded.

Is he coming back? said Lily.

Of course he’s not coming back. Good riddance. As I said, people like your father are the reason we’ve come to this. We’ll be far better off without him.

Lily started crying.

Why did he leave? she asked.

Because he had no use for us anymore. Just take take take, like every other man. Then off to try his luck elsewhere. Didn’t I tell you, Evelyn? Didn’t I tell you about the bees? Fattens himself up and then off he goes.

Evelyn had not thought their father looked fat. Not in years. Lily wept and would not be consoled.

You can cry all you like, Lily, he’s not coming back for you.

Evelyn held Lily close and felt the coldness of her sister’s tears soaking through her pinafore and vest and onto her skin.

Well, for Christ’s sake, if you miss him that much, then you can go after him, for all I care.

Their mother got up and blew out the candles. Evelyn stood in the darkness with her sister. In the thin light from the open door she watched Mama forage for something in the dresser and then walk off in the direction of the toolshed, talking to herself.