“Because I still have training to finish, and . . .”
They came upon an overturned wheelbarrow and a bucket.
“Chester usually keeps that locked away somewhere,” Sebastian said. “That’s his favorite wheelbarrow. He’s precious about it. I think he . . .”
His words trailed off. They had reached the woodshed. The door hung open. The padlock was still locked, but someone had gotten around that by ripping the latch away from the wood.
“Bugger,” he said, hurrying over. “Bugger . . .”
“Burgled?” Theo said.
“It sodding hell looks like it. I don’t think our lot actually tears the buildings open.”
Sebastian stepped into the shed and reached for the light switch, but nothing came on.
There was little in the woodshed to steal, unless you were in the market for wood, spiderwebs, or old, broken tools. It contained only one thing of real value, and Sebastian was checking on that now. He grabbed for something by the side of the door, which turned out to be a long-handled axe. He went deeper into the shed and held the axe up over his head, reaching around with the blade end delicately until it found purchase on a small loop of rope. He pulled down on this, lowering a set of folding wooden stairs.
“Everything’s fine up here,” Sebastian said from his position halfway up the steps. Theo could see only his lower half—the rest of him was up in the crawl space above the shed floor. “They didn’t get what they were after, if that’s what they came for. Floor’s soaked. The door must have been open most of the night. Seems like they went to a lot of effort for nothing. . . . What?”
Theo was staring at Sebastian with a strange intensity as he came down the stairs.
“Your face,” she said.
“What about it?”
“You’ve cut yourself. You’re bleeding. Right side.”
“I don’t think so,” he said, touching his cheek. “How would I have done that?”
He examined his fingers. They were streaked with blood. He touched his cheek again, feeling for a cut, but there was none there. The blood was coming from nowhere.
“I’m not cut,” he said. “Where’s this come from?”
Then he noticed it. The thing on the floor, near the woodpile. At first, he thought it was a log. But then he saw that this particular log seemed to be wearing a Wellington boot. It was a bare leg sticking out from a pile of wood.
Theo had also seen the leg and was down on the floor, pulling wood off Rosie.
At the very least, she was pulling the wood off what remained of Rosie.
4
THE DEPARTURE WAS NOW SCHEDULED FOR THE SATURDAY BEFORE Thanksgiving. Her parents were at first saddened by the thought of Stevie not being home to argue with them over a medium-sized turkey and boxed stuffing, but when they heard that David was involved, everything changed. Stevie’s parents loved David. They loved him in a way that was irritating and unnerving. They loved him because: a） they were the kind of people who felt that Stevie’s having a boyfriend was a primary mission in life and b） David was the son of their hero, who happened to be an incredibly toxic politician, now disgraced and temporarily off the radar doing whatever it was that toxic politicians do while waiting for the public to forget about their mistakes. Public memory is surprisingly short when it comes to these things.
Whatever the case, this worked in Stevie’s favor. That hurdle was easily cleared.
The others had their respective conversations with their families, and everyone was granted permission for this educational opportunity. They had an email from some dude at the American embassy, and sometimes, that is enough to make your weeklong plan of tours and photo opportunities seem more legitimate than it is.
She went to class. She did the readings （usually）。 She went to study parties in the yurt. She saw the leaves change to gold and red and finally to brown and fall off the trees. She ate maple syrup and pretended to be a functioning member of the student body. She was physically present. Her body showed up. Mentally, not so much. For weeks, she was flooded with the kind of excitement that borders on panic. Everything was new and fresh and alive. The air smelled sweeter. Her classes were more interesting. Math seemed relevant. The new students were sparkling citizens of humanity, and her established classmates close as family. The sheep loved her and she loved them.
Her thoughts circled one subject, like water in a drain. A few days before their departure, Stevie decided she couldn’t handle her questions alone, so it was time to go to the expert. Stevie knocked on Janelle’s door. Janelle looked up from some physics homework, a TV show, and crocheting—all of which she was watching or doing at the same time, because she was Janelle.
Stevie sat on the floor and picked at the wood for a moment, trying to find the words.
“When we go to England,” she said. “I don’t . . . get to see David that often. And I’ve been . . . because he’s been gone, and I . . . I think I . . . I want to . . .”
She knew the words but was having trouble uttering them.
“I think we . . . I . . .”
“You want to have sex with David,” Janelle said plainly.
Stevie pointed at her, indicating that she had guessed correctly.
“How did you know?”
Janelle smiled in a way that suggested that Stevie was a beautiful tropical fish, so simple and so precious.
“What’s the question?” Janelle asked. “I’m kind of not an expert on the whole male anatomy thing, but I know the basics.”
“No! No. No . . . What do I . . . do? Not . . . what do I do. But, what do I do? For it? I mean, to make it happen? To get ready? I just want to be ready, in case . . .”
“You mean, contraception? Is that what you’re asking?”
“No. I mean . . . like, I’ve got to . . . wear something?”
“Actually, you don’t. That’s kind of part of it.”
“I mean, something for before. Like, an outfit.”
“Ohhhhh.” Janelle nodded. Clothing choices. This was her wheelhouse. “Well, first thing, I’d say you have to feel comfortable. It’s about what makes you feel sexy. What makes you feel sexy?”
“Are you seriously asking me that? Nothing.”
“I mean, what do you feel like you look good in?”
Stevie cast her gaze around the room helplessly.
“A . . . hoodie?”
Janelle leaned back against the bed. This was a challenge, and Janelle liked a challenge.
“There is no such thing as a sex hoodie,” she said. “At least, there is probably not such a thing as a sex hoodie.”
“Please stop saying sex hoodie.”
“What about . . . underwear?”
“I own underwear,” Stevie confirmed.
“Maybe you can get nice underwear?”
Stevie had considered this, but nice underwear was not for her. She got three-packs of cotton briefs, usually in black. They were all stretched out, except for one pair that held on to its elastic for dear life. It was the magic pair, and Stevie saved it for special occasions, like when she might be bending over more than usual or the day her favorite podcast released a new episode. As for bras . . . half the time she forgot to wear one, and the other half of the time, she wore the same sports bra she’d gotten on a clearance rack. So really, it was bra. Singular. Very stretched out. Had deodorant marks on it that were never coming off.