Hurrying to get the chicken out of the frying pan before it burns, Dawn winces at the feeling of hot oil hitting her knuckles. She ignores the pain and wipes her hands on the small apron that has faded letters on the front. Using one hand to stir sauce on the small stove and another to check a pot of pasta, she watches Melissa in the reflection of a polished teakettle. The invitation to dinner had been suspicious from the beginning, but the demand that Dawn cook the meal makes her feel like there is more to this meeting than a friendly chat. A sputter of sparks from the electric stove forces her to turn the burners down, which is a relief since the tent is feeling like an out of control sauna. Figuring that she has sweated enough for one day, she scoops out enough pasta for two plates and drowns the food in sauce. Joining Melissa at the table, she half expects to be waved into a corner, but is directed to a chair by a nod of the woman’s head. A loud pop is followed by the smell of wine, which the caravan leader pulls from under the table. Not seeing any cups, Dawn is about to ask how they are going to drink when her host takes a long sip and passes the bottle.