The teacup had belonged to Caroline, passed to her through a line of family members who were early settlers in the New World. It was a ridiculous thing to bring into the Wilderness, but it was fine and pretty with a chipped gold rim and a colorful coat of arms from the place those relatives had fled. It had its own carrying box of wood, lined with old crumbling velvet, where it sat snug until needed. Ri diculous, but they cherished it. In it, they might pour a tea of blossoms, or roots, or bone, depending on the ritual or the season, and they’d pass it around the fire. It felt lovely in their hands and though there were many things in the Wilderness that looked delicate, really, nothing was. Hollow bird bones? Gossamer spiderwebs? Filigree-like lichen? They’re tough, hardy. The teacup, though, was truly a delicate thing, and it would make each of them delicate when it passed into their possession. And that feeling is a kind of gift when they had to otherwise be hard.

It had been lost in the climbing accident. They were heading into the mountains for the winter because winter in the lowlands was too harsh and empty of food, while the caves and mounds of mountain snow made for good dwellings that in spring melted away any sign of them, which was like disappearing without a trace. Thomas was carrying the teacup in his pouch. As they climbed, he lost his footing and fell backwards off a ledge that everyone else had managed just fine. He tumbled down, and the bag’s contents scattered across the rocks below. When they saw the box fly and open against a rock, they had gasped, though no one had gasped when Thomas had begun falling, or as he continued to fall. No one was that close to him, except Caroline, his wife. He’d never taken to the group. He wasn’t a joiner, he’d explained pleasantly when they all first met.

The teacup flew out into the air from its safe velvet bed, the gold rim glinting in the sun, and some of them who were close enough tried to reach out to catch it. Even Thomas reached for it mid-tumble rather than reaching for a handhold that might stop his fall.

The cup came to rest in pieces, the porcelain dust settling like bone ash across the rock. Some gathered small shards and put them in a skin pouch as a new keepsake. But those shards cut them when they rummaged for anything, and eventually they were deposited discreetly across the landscape they walked, the shards small enough to disappear in the dirt.

Of course, poor Thomas had continued to fall, and presumably he had died. A couple of people climbed down partway, but they couldn’t see him and he didn’t respond to their shouts. So the Community took a moment to say some nice things about him and console Caroline, and then they walked on. They didn’t perform many rituals anymore, in large part because the teacup was gone. It was true that rituals took time and effort, and the more time they spent in the Wilderness, the less they wanted to celebrate. At first, every river crossing had been notable, but now they barely wanted to mark the first of the year. Regardless, Bea knew that without the teacup there was simply no ceremonial feeling. They were just drinking tea. But still, no one spoke ill of Thomas afterward. If he’d survived, they wouldn’t have given him the silent treatment around the fire. No one blamed him for losing the cup, at least not out loud. Bea wished they’d remember that now.

Across the fire she tried to catch Debra’s eye, but Debra would not look at her. Her mouth was set, her gaze stern. She had Caroline’s bag next to her and was fingering the soft hide strap. All at once Bea realized they must have been more than close. Debra had arrived with a much younger wife, and Caroline with a much older husband. Both of their spouses were gone now—one deserted, the other dead. The pairing made sense, Bea supposed. It had to have been something new. They slept next to each other in the sleep circle, but not together. Whatever had happened they’d kept private. No easy task in the Community.

Dr. Harold busied himself packing a new salve into a hollowed-out chunk of wood. Bea could see his cheeks blaze red even in the firelight as she stared at him, trying to be acknowledged. Carl couldn’t help but look at her simply to snarl and show he was still sore about the rope. She didn’t bother looking at Val, who she hated and who hated her. The surprising one was Juan, who looked at each person around the fire as he told the story, held their gaze a beat, and then moved to the next. But his eyes jumped anxiously, perhaps angrily, over Bea. But I saved your life, she wanted to yell.

The only person paying attention to her was Agnes, who watched her actions and irritatingly imitated each one. When Bea scratched her ankle, Agnes scratched her ankle. Bea mouthed stop, and Agnes mouthed stop. Bea shook her head and rolled her eyes. And so did Agnes, dramatically, as if to mock her. Then, as Bea’s anger sparked, Agnes put a hand on Bea’s knee as though an adult consoling another, and grinned with that broken tooth. Bea melted from her daughter’s goofy smile and the warmth of her hand. Bea wanted someone to be kind to her. She wanted some unconditional love. She reached to embrace her, but skittish Agnes slipped through her arms. She tried a new tactic. Bea yawned so that Agnes would yawn. She stretched her arms so that Agnes would stretch her arms out. She leaned back, trying to pull Agnes down with her to sleep. But Agnes wouldn’t be tricked. She didn’t want to sleep. She pulled her arms into her chest, stifled a real yawn, and scooted to Glen, pressing a curious fingertip into the flint shavings at his feet. Bea, dejected, stood up, shivering to be even that far from the fire. She did not want to sleep in the same circle as these people. Far off, behind some butte, coyotes yodeled to one another, friend, friend, friend, and Bea felt bereft at the sound of such communion.

What she could see was from starlight and from smell. She sniffed and found Glen’s bag with their bedding. Their scent was all over it. She laid it out on the ground some distance from the fire. She heard a crunch behind her and tensed for a moment before she felt Glen’s hands on her shoulders, kneading them.

“Tough day,” he murmured near her neck. She could tell he felt bad about ignoring her at the fire.

“You would have cut the rope, right?”

“Of course.” She felt his cheeks lift to a smile as he put a small kiss to her temple.

“But . . . ?”

“I might have waited just a tad longer.”

“Well, fuck, Glen. Did I just murder Caroline?”

“Oh no, no, no,” he said patiently, pulling her down to their bedding. “Caroline was dead the second that log attacked her.”

“Then what does the timing matter?”

Glen shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t. But if she was already dead, then what was the rush?”

“But Juan.”

Glen waved his hand. “Juan was always going to be fine.”

She stamped her foot, and Glen put his hands back on her shoulders. “Look, Juan was fine. Caroline was lost. But that rope wasn’t. Not until you cut it. People just need a minute.” He paused, then shrugged. “It was a really good rope.”

Agnes slunk up at that moment as Bea and Glen went silent naturally at the end of their conversation. But Agnes took it personally. “You don’t have to stop talking,” she lisped angrily. “I know a lot. I’m mature.”

Glen grabbed Agnes around the waist and flipped her. “We were already done talking,” he sang, dangling her an inch above the ground until her huffs and puffs became reluctant laughs, then shrieks of glee. Glen eased her down to the bed, and she arranged herself, as she always did, at their feet.

Glen and Bea nestled down, and in the ensuing silence Bea’s mind drifted to the sky that had shone white-hot above her when she had Madeline and she was grateful for the distraction when Agnes, from the bottom of the bed, cooed, “I’m sad about Caroline.”

“You are?” Bea couldn’t keep her surprise in, and she could tell from Agnes’s sharp breath that she was surprised by her mother’s surprise.

“Yeah,” Agnes said, though now she phrased it more as a question.

“Well,” Bea said, “Caroline was always nice to you.” If Bea were being completely honest, she thought Caroline was more aloof than Thomas and really hadn’t liked her at all. It wasn’t that she was glad she was dead. She just wasn’t that bothered to have lost her and felt uncomfortable about the level of mourning happening. It was bad enough to be blamed about the rope without everyone moping about Caroline too. She rolled her eyes in the dark. She was never sure what was better parenting—modeling compassion or just being honest. Agnes was so nice to everyone, even if she wasn’t always very nice to her mother. So she kept her feelings about Caroline, once again, to herself. “She was a lot of fun,” she said with a nod into the darkness.

“It’s just,” Agnes ventured, “I really wish we could have saved her.”

Even her daughter thought she’d cut the rope too fast. “You too?” Bea barked. “I suppose you really miss the rope as well?”

“Okay, okay,” Glen said, putting an arm around Bea and ruffling Agnes’s hair. “We need to get to sleep.” Bea saw Agnes’s teeth in the dim dark smiling up at Glen and Bea, realized she was being toyed with. Of course Agnes had heard enough of their conversation to know, or want to know, how that comment would sound to Bea. It was something Agnes was playing with lately—pointed comments, knowing looks. Testing boundaries like she had as a toddler, but now with a sharpness, a tartness to her. Agnes was playing at a lot of things lately, and Bea felt she could hardly keep up.