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orbit—it’s what does this. it’s what binds these people. it’s the opposite of my mother’s half-life, the black hole that nearly crushed me, pulverized my stony places into a fine dust of no, not now.
    never .
    Henry’s half-life fuses, fixes, folds people inward.
    where my mother’s only ever pushed me away.
    when dinner is ready, Henry gathers us around the campfire, a leaping, dancing bonfire out behind the barn. it is just as He described it to me when we were off in the van on our own: pixilated stars piercing the inky depths of the sky, girls and boys with scrubbed faces and long, flowing hair, crouched, happy, eating to their fill.
    there is one hitch that i learn quickly, though.
    bowls are passed out, and spoons. i peer into mine: some sort of soup, or stew. it smells of garlic and smoke, but even if it smelled like nothing but clear blue air, it’s fine; after three days of service-station snack food, i could eat just about anything. i dip my spoon into the bowl.
    immediately, there is a sharp elbow poking into my ribs. shelly’s elbow.
    i turn, confused.
    she points to a spot just to the left of the campfire, to where the dogs have reappeared, eagerly devouring bowls of flood of their own.
    “we have to wait until they’re finished,” she says.
    it takes me a moment, as she jerks her head, until i get what she means:
    they.
    as in: the dogs.
    we have to wait until the dogs are finished.
    i glance at Henry, and at His side, junior, the tall cowboy type with the toothpaste smile. shelly told me earlier that he tends to emmett’s cattle.
    right now, junior is eating. scarfing, in fact: scooping mounds of soup from his bowl and shoveling it straight into his mouth without even swallowing. a thin dribble of liquid runs down his chin, snaking an oily, pungent trail through the early-evening scruff of his sculpted jaw.
    junior is not waiting. for anyone or anything.
    “the girls, ” shelly says, seeing the puzzlement on my face. “the girls have to wait.”
    i glance around the circle and see that she is right; none of the girls are eating yet. several bounce babies from the corral on their laps; most are content to simply stare off into space. leila is stretched back on her elbows, the sleeves of her peasant blouse pushed up, sandals kicked off and bare feet pointed toward the fire. she wiggles her toes, sighs.
    her face has relaxed, and i realize that though her features are sharp, cruel, she is pretty.
    all of Henry’s girls are pretty.
    does this mean i am pretty?
    Henry finishes with His food, sets His bowl beside Him, grins. flames flicker, framing His face. His cheeks are tinged with a deep orange glow.
    “aren’t you hungry, mel?” He asks.
    i get it: this is how He tells me that it is time. for me, for the girls to feed. this is how He tells us.
    i get it.
    “aren’t you hungry?”
    and i am.
    i am hungry.
    more than that, even.
    i am starving.
    Henry indicates that it is time for me to eat. for me, and all of my sisters.
    so i do.
    we all do.
    later, shelly explains it.
    “it’s a sign of respect,” she says, “that the girls eat last.
    “it’s a sign of His respect.”
    last but not least, i think.
    or even: saving the best for last.
    it’s a sign of respect. Henry’s respect.
    i can see in shelly’s eyes how much she wants me to understand, to get it, like the punch line from that nearforgotten joke.
    her want is enough for me.
    more than enough. it’s everything.
    and. well.
    after all: respect.
    of course.
    no wonder i didn’t recognize it.

music
    after we have all eaten our fill, Henry takes out His guitar.
    when Henry plays guitar, it is easy to see how shelly could mistake Him for jesus.
    myself, i suddenly wonder if in fact i do believe in god. (i have no doubt about how it is that i believe in Henry.)
    i know it’s a cliché to say so, but Henry plays guitar like an angel.
    assuming that angels can play guitars.
    i figure that angels can do whatever they want to do.