“Which one is Carl?”

Agnes pointed to Carl, who was picking grubs out from between the rotted boards of their torn-down shacks and popping them into his mouth.

“Oh, yeah,” Celeste said. “That makes sense.”

“He’s not weird or anything,” Agnes said, feeling protective of Carl, seeing him through this girl’s eyes, seeing for the first time his dirt, realizing his odor, his matted hair, the zealousness in his eyes. “He just belongs here.”

“Like you?”

Agnes flushed with pride and some shame. “Like me. Like me now.” She spoke with slow surprise, unsure the words were really coming from her. “At first I wanted my mother to brush my hair every day because I didn’t like it to get tangled.” She pointed to her hatcheted hair. “I wore a white outfit off the bus,” she said, wincing at the image, the brightness of the clothing under the dazzling sun. She squinted. It felt as if she were watching another little girl, a pleasant stranger. “My fingernails were painted,” she said. “They were painted pink. Pink was my favorite color.” Agnes started laughing, then laughing harder, and then Celeste joined in and they got stares from around the beach, especially from Patty. They stopped.

Celeste leaned in, whispered, “I brought nail polish.”

Something in Agnes’s stomach turned. She both wanted to see the color, color that wasn’t of the earth, and also wanted nothing to do with something so unreal, so of her mother’s world. A dead world.

“It would be hilarious to see it on you,” Celeste said. She eyed Agnes’s dirty fingernails.

“I think it would get in the way,” Agnes said. Could she hunt with painted fingernails? Could she eat with her hands? Could she braid sinew into strong threads? Would it ever come off, or would she have to eat it off? Would she try to eat it off and grow dependent on its sustenance and die once it was gone? Her heart raced.

“It’s pink,” Celeste said.

Agnes opened her mouth to say no just as Celeste said, “Come on,” and Agnes followed her.

Celeste trudged past the Community and the Newcomers, and Patty materialized to walk with them, a camaraderie beyond words. They silently crossed over into the forest, a line that was stark and sunny on one side and dank and dark on the other side.

Celeste counted, “One two three four . . .” to ten, and then she pivoted left. “One two three four . . .” to ten. She pivoted right. “One two three four . . .” to ten. She stopped. A boulder covered in moss. Celeste peeled back the moss in one wet green sheet and revealed a notch in the rock. From the notch, a neon-pink glow spread like a sunburst.

Celeste picked the bottle up like it was a baby bird, caressed it in her hands, modeled it to the other girls. “It’s called Neon Dreamlife,” she whispered, and Patty moaned.

“It has sparkles in it. But you can’t see them until they’re on your nails.”

“Do me,” Patty said. Celeste unscrewed the cap, and they all put their noses close to the opening and breathed in.

Patty coughed. “I love it.”

Agnes’s mouth watered. She wanted to drink the mercurial pink. Feel it coat her throat.

Celeste put her palm out and Patty slid her hand upon it.

Celeste swept the brush slowly across each fingernail, one two three times, clean, careful. Patty shivered. Her eyes were squeezed shut, anticipating a surprise.

“Don’t touch anything,” Celeste finally said. Patty opened her eyes.

The girls all drew closer to her hand. Patty wiggled her fingers. Agnes couldn’t remember ever seeing such a vibrant color. Flowers, yes. But real flowers were coated with dust, or washed out in the sun’s glare. Perhaps, she thought, once after a spring rain when the sun broke through the clouds she’d seen some violets gleaming purple, and that had been a shock to her eyes in the way Patty’s nails were a shock. Sometimes the sunset was violently colorful. The color of just-spilled blood was shocking. Or when they butchered, pulled the stomach out whole, the red and blue veins like an anatomy diagram from one of her nana’s old schoolbooks. That blue was bright and pure. But this pink, it hurt her eyes. It made her not want to share. She remembered her mother’s magazine, and the bold colors she’d used in decorating. But even though the paper was glossy, it was still removed, distant. Pictures of a place she would never see in real life. Untouchable. Agnes reached out.

“No touch! Not dry!” Celeste screeched.

Agnes’s hand darted back. Blood rose to her cheeks. She covered them with her hands. She knew the pink of her cheeks wasn’t as pretty as the pink on Patty’s fingers.

Patty was blowing on them like they were birthday candles.

“Do me,” Agnes said.

“I’m not sure it’ll stay on your nails.” Celeste eyed them. “They’re so dirty.”

Agnes spit into her hand and wiped her nails.

Celeste pretended to puke. “You are disgusting,” she said, and held out her palm.

Agnes slid her hand upon it.

“I’m only doing one nail. A test nail. I don’t want to waste good polish if it’s not going to stay.”

“Please,” Agnes whimpered.

“Do you want any polish or not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, which one?”

Agnes looked at her scarred hands, her jagged nails, the dirt under them. She wiggled her left pinkie. “This one.” It must be the finger she did the least with. It would stay cleaner longer, she thought. The polish would remain unchipped. Maybe forever. She stuck it in her mouth, tried to clean the nail with her tongue. Then wiped it on her smock.

She closed her eyes.

The brush was soft. Tickling. The liquid was cold going on. Like dipping her pinkie into a winter river’s icy slurry. A thrill shot through her neck. Then, everything on her fingernail closed up, tightened, stopped breathing. She felt it being suffocated. She almost yelped, leapt up to run away. She hated it.

“Okay,” Celeste said. “Go like this.”

Agnes opened her eyes, saw Celeste blowing on her own hands, and looked down.

The pink was catching light she hadn’t even known was present in the dark forest. It looked as though it moved on her nail, breathed more and more color into itself. She saw the speckles of glitter. Not too much. Just enough. It was alive and perfect.

Celeste screwed the lid back on.

“Aren’t you going to do yours?”

“I’ll wait for a special occasion.”

“What special occasion would happen here?” Patty said.

“I’m sure there is something,” Celeste said. “Don’t people get married? Or throw parties? My mom loves to throw parties.”

“Why are you here?” Agnes asked.

“Why are you here,” Celeste responded, her eyes narrowing, suspicious again.

“I was sick.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

Agnes saw her bloodstained pillowcases again, the blood sprays never quite washing out. “No, I remember. I was. I was sick.”

“So your mom brought you here to save you?”

Agnes caught her breath. She had not thought of it that way before. Her face burned, but she wasn’t sure why. “I guess,” she said. She didn’t like this story, though. “And Glen,” she said.

“Who is Glen?”

“My dad.”

“Why do you call him Glen?”

“He’s not my real dad.”

“Yeah, you look nothing alike,” said Patty.

“You act nothing alike,” said Celeste.

“He’s a great leader,” Agnes said, her chest puffing at the thought that someone like him could be her dad.

The Twins burst out laughing.

“You are hilarious,” said Celeste.

“He brought us here,” Agnes said, confused.

“I thought you said your mom did.”

“They both did.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t so simple.” Celeste scowled. “My mom never does something unless it suits her.”

“I don’t know. My mom was pretty unhappy here I think. That’s why she left.”

“I thought she left because her mom died.”

Agnes blinked. “Yeah, she did.”

Celeste stared at her. “You must be, like, ten years old or something, right?”

“I’m much older than that,” Agnes said.

“You could be eleven.”

“I don’t know how old I am,” Agnes said.

“That’s okay,” Celeste said, throwing her arm around Agnes. “You’re eleven. It’s decided.” Agnes didn’t know if she liked Celeste. But she liked the weight of Celeste’s soft meaty arm on her shoulder.

Celeste handed the nail polish to Patty, who laid it back in its notch like a baby being put down for a nap, drawing the moss back over it gently, patting it into place, then patting her glittering wet hands onto her face. “Dew is great for the skin,” she said.

They trudged out of the woods and squinted into the harsh sun that bounced off the water. Agnes smelled the smoke of the fire being lit. Her stomach growled. She hid her beautifully painted fingernail in her fist.