Often, she brought home blue-rinded Jarrahdale pumpkins and deep orange Rouge Vif d’Etampes, and Miel would hide in the hallway closet. Aracely would narrate her progress from the kitchen. I’m splitting it open, Miel. Okay, now I’m hollowing it out. I’m putting it in the pot now. But Miel stayed in the closet, worried that new vines might sprout from the pumpkin’s severed stem. That was probably another thing Aracely had almost asked ten times, opening her mouth and then hesitating. Why, to Miel, a pumpkin couldn’t just be a pumpkin. A question Aracely knew better than to say out loud. That hesitation always told Miel that the words on Aracely’s tongue had more weight than Are we out of blue eggs? or Have you seen my yellow sweater? Miel wondered if a look crossed her face that showed Aracely the thread of fear in her. Please. Please don’t ask questions. Please don’t wreck this, this life I have with you, by making me tell you. Now, standing at the edge of the Bonners’ farm, Miel wrapped her arms around herself, fingers digging in.
