My first impulse is to run, but I know that I cannot outpace the machine, so I wait, praying that it is Lynna, and not her father or her uncle. As the ATV draws closer, I see strands of blond hair fluttering from beneath the helmet and I know that my prayers have been answered.

Lynna skids to a halt. She pulls off her helmet and shakes her hair free.

“Jacob!” She is smiling. Her cheeks are red; the rest of her face is winter pale. “What are you doing here?”

I feel myself smiling back at her. “Nothing,” I say.

She laughs. “You must be doing something! How is your leg? All better?”

“It is healed,” I say, though in fact it is rather sore. “How are you?”

“Me? You know, same old, same old. Bored out of my mind. What are you doing here?” she asks again.

“I followed the cattle trail,” I say, gesturing at the path I am standing upon. “I was just wondering where you lived. Why is your house pink?”

Even though the sky is clear and the sun is shining upon us, a shadow passes across her face.

“That was my mom,” she says. “She painted lots of stuff pink after she got her cancer.”

“Oh,” I say, even though it makes no sense to me.

Lynna laughs at nothing and says, “This is so cool, you coming here! Are you hungry?”

“I should get back,” I say, looking over my shoulder toward Nodd.

“Come on, just stay for a few minutes. My dad’s in Billings all day, and Cal’s off in West Fork for a few hours, so we’ve got the place to ourselves. I’ll make you a quesadilla. Do you like quesadillas?”

“What’s a quesadilla?”

“Oh my God, you never had a quesadilla? Do you like Mexican food?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Okay, that’s it. You’ve got to try my quesadillas. They’re the best. Get on.”

Unable to resist her enthusiasm, I climb onto the machine, backpack and all, and a moment later we are bouncing down the trail toward the pink house.

A quesadilla is two disks of unleavened bread called tortillas, with cheese and other ingredients pressed between them. I sit in the kitchen looking with wonder at all the unfamiliar appliances and decorations as Lynna cooks the quesadilla in a heavy cast-iron frying pan exactly like the ones the women use in Nodd.

“What is that?” I ask, pointing at a white metal box on the counter.

“Bread machine,” Lynna says.

“You make bread in a machine?”

“Yeah, you just pour flour and yeast in, and it kneads the dough and bakes it automatically.”

I think of the hours the Sisters spend kneading dough by hand. I ask her about another object on the counter.

“That’s a food processor for, like, chopping vegetables and stuff. My mom was a great cook. I don’t use it much.”

“What are all these pink ribbon things?” The ribbons were on display everywhere: refrigerator magnets, a calendar, even a cookie jar with a pink ribbon for a handle.

“That’s my dad. He sends money for breast cancer research, and they keep sending us ribbon stuff.” She flips the quesadilla. “I hope I didn’t make this too spicy. I can’t believe you never had a quesadilla.”

I hope it is as good as the fried chicken and orange soda we had at our picnic by the fence.

“So what have you been up to all winter?” she asks. “Did that big storm hit you as hard as it did us? We lost thirteen head on the west range.”

“Some of our sheep were killed,” I say. “By a wolf.”

“Really? Cal says he’s seen sign, but the cattle we lost just got killed by weather. They got mired in an arroyo over near the river, and we didn’t find them in time. They were frozen like Popsicles. My dad was pissed. He had a big fight with Cal over it. Said Cal should’ve checked that arroyo. It was kind of ugly with the three of us stuck out here. The road was so bad, we couldn’t even get to town. I just about went crazy.” She slides the quesadilla onto a cutting board, slices it into wedges, and puts the board on the table in front of me. “Let it sit for a minute. The cheese is really hot.”

It smells wonderful.

“You want a soda?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She takes two cans from the refrigerator and pops open the tops. Coca-Cola. Even in Nodd we have heard of Coca-Cola. I am excited to taste it.

Lynna says, “It gets lonely out here, you know? But I suppose you don’t have that problem, what with so many of you.”

“I get lonely sometimes. Tobias ran away that same day you came to visit.”

“I know. He came here.”

I stare at her as a mixture of relief and anger rise up from my belly. I am relieved because a small part of me feared that Tobias had thrown himself from the Knob and been swept away by the Pison. I am angry because the thought of Tobias sitting here in this kitchen with Lynna feels wrong.

“We let him sleep in the bunkhouse. My dad wanted to drive him straight back to you guys, but then Tobias started telling us stories about how he was treated there — about being locked in the dungeon, or pit, or whatever you call it. My dad made a couple of calls. He talked to Tobias’s aunt in Denver, and she said he could stay with her. I guess his sister’s there now too. Anyway, the next day we drove him to Billings and put him on a bus. You should try the quesadilla.”

I am too shocked by the news of Tobias to reply, so I pick up a slice of quesadilla and take a bite. At first, it is delicious. I chew and swallow, and then I realize that my mouth is burning. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a croak. I grab the Coca-Cola and guzzle half the can. The bubbles from the drink foam in my stomach and I unleash a tremendous belch.

Lynna is laughing so hard tears are coming from her eyes, and the inside of my mouth is burning with the fires of Hell.