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Help Janet cook for everyone. After the visit, get a tongue piercing and dye my hair rainbow. Kimo is present of course.

Janet's kitchen is small and organized and the counters are clean and the knives are sharp and Lena fits in the kitchen the way she fits on the site — large, certain, taking up space without apology. Kimo is in the harness against her chest and the boy is awake and his dark eyes track Janet's hands as she moves between the stove and the counter. The cooking smells are thick — garlic and sesame oil and the iron tang of short ribs braising in a pot that has been on low heat since before Lena arrived.

"You want to help?" Janet says. The question is not a test. The question is an offering — the offering of a woman who has been cooking alone in this kitchen for thirty years and would like someone next to her.

"Yeah," Lena says. "Show me what you're making."

Janet shows her. The short ribs are Samuel's mother's recipe — soy sauce, brown sugar, ginger, the slow braise that fills the house with a smell that is older than the house. Lena chops scallions and the knife work is the knife work of a woman who has been handling tools for a year and the knife is a tool and the tool is comfortable. Kimo hums against her chest and the humming vibrates through the cutting board. Janet stirs the pot and the stirring is the stirring of a woman who is standing next to her daughter for the first time in a kitchen that has been waiting for this.

"More garlic," Janet says. "Samuel likes it heavy."

Lena minces six cloves and the mincing is fast and the rhythm is the rhythm of the site — the steady repetitive motion that the body knows. Janet watches the hands and the watching is the watching of a woman seeing her daughter's hands do something new and recognizing the competence in them.

"You've gotten good with your hands," Janet says. The voice is quiet.

"Construction," Lena says. "Every day. The hands learn."

Samuel is in the living room with Kimo on his lap and the television is on but Samuel is not watching it. The man is sitting on the couch with the boy in his arms and the boy is humming and the man is still and the stillness is the stillness of a person who is exactly where he needs to be. Through the kitchen doorway Janet watches him and the watching is brief and private and Lena sees it and the seeing is the seeing of a daughter who understands something about her parents she did not understand before.

They eat together at the table. The short ribs are tender and the rice is sticky and the scallions are sharp and Kimo sits in Janet's lap and the boy is part of the meal — not eating, not talking, just present, humming, his fists reaching for chopsticks. Samuel eats three plates. Janet eats two. Lena eats four and the eating is the eating the crew knows — large, deliberate, unapologetic. Janet doesn't comment on the quantity. Samuel doesn't comment on the nakedness. The afternoon is the afternoon.

The drive home is two hours and the highway is dark and Kimo sleeps in the car seat and the truck is the truck. Lena's mind is on Jess's shop and the shop is open late on Saturdays and the drive passes through Gainesville and the exit for Tenth Street is familiar and the truck pulls up in front of JESS — CUSTOM INK and the chime rings and Jess looks up and sees Lena and Kimo and the face does the thing.

"Back again," Jess says.

"I want a tongue piercing," Lena says. "And I want to dye my hair. Rainbow."

Jess looks at her and the looking is the looking of a woman who has heard a lot of requests in this shop and this one is not the strangest. The tongue piercing is clinical — the clamp, the needle, the steel barbell, the sharp clean pain that Lena knows from the nipples and the navel. Jess's hands are steady and the needle goes through and the barbell is in and the blood is minimal and the swelling starts immediately and Lena's tongue is thick and foreign in her mouth and the foreignness is temporary.

The hair is different. Jess doesn't do hair — this is not a hair shop — but the supply store next door has bleach and dye and the woman who works there comes in and the coming in is the coming in of a neighbor who has seen stranger things on Tenth Street. The bleach goes on first and the smell is sharp and chemical and Kimo watches from the harness and the boy's eyes are wide and the eyes track the foil. The dye goes on in sections — red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple — and the sections are the spectrum and the spectrum is bright and the brightness is the brightness of a woman who has been black ink and dark skin and steel for a year and wants something that is not dark.

"You look like a mermaid," Jess says. The voice is amused and warm.

"I look like me," Lena says. The tongue piercing makes the words thick and the thickness is new and the newness is the newness of a body that keeps changing and the changing is the point. The mirror in the shop shows a 600-pound woman with tribal black ink from ankle to neck and rainbow hair and a steel barbell in her tongue and a baby in a harness and the woman in the mirror is the woman Lena is and the woman Lena is is the woman Lena wants to be.