A woman in your kitchen wears a yellow dress, puts her feet up. Makes a grocery list in handwriting that slides over the paper, slants and dips and pulls itself back up again. It says: scissors, tape. It says: corkscrews, bottlecaps, aluminum foil, paper plates. Where are the vegetables? you say, where is the orange soda? Tell me what you're thinking, she says, tell me where you've been. And all you want to do is hide, tell her you're thinking nothing, tell her you're thinking about leaving your kitchen and walking out to the traintracks to wait for the ghosts from that bus full of children who died. You've always wondered how to conjure them. You're always wondering, she says, how I manage to know everything, how I manage to tell you nothing, nothing at all. And you say, yes. You sit down, pour a glass of milk, say yes.