Excerpt from California by Edan Lepucki, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"But I do wonder where they get the salt to cure their meat," Cal had added. Frida didn't have an answer, and, anyway, it was the farthest thing from her mind, and she didn't press Cal to go on. She couldn't stop thinking about what Sandy had told her in the house. It changed things. Frida felt her perspective shifting, tilting the world, blurring the colors, brightening them.

The next time they had sex, when Cal said, "I'm close," Frida held him to her, wouldn't let him go. "Good," she'd whispered into his ear.

They didn't talk about what had happened, not at first. When they did, they both admitted it felt right. Having the Millers nearby, just the very idea of them, gave them both solace. The hopelessness lifted right off of Frida.

Three weeks later, the Millers arrived at the shed. Already Garrett looked older, taller, and someone had given Jane a bob.

"You look like a flapper," Frida had told her that day. The girl frowned. Of course she had no idea what that was.

"It's a kind of lady, from a long time ago." Jane waited, as if expecting more, and Frida kept talking. "From like a hundred years ago…actually longer, maybe close to a hundred and thirty. A long time." Frida paused. "She liked to dance."

At this Jane beamed, but a moment later, as if startled by her own joy, she turned away from Frida, hiding her face in her mother's thighs. Sandy said, "Sometimes Garrett bangs on the drum we have, and Janey dances."

Frida laughed, and so did Sandy.

"Do you mind showing me the shed?" Sandy asked. "I'm curious to see what you've done with the place." Frida agreed, and Sandy grabbed Jane's hand. The three headed to the shed.

When they reached the open doorway, Sandy looked up, her eyes on the dark interior. Suddenly, she stepped back into the sunlight and pulled Jane's hand so roughly her daughter crashed against her thigh. What was it? Cal's bandanna wasn't in sight, but then Frida saw it: her sleeping bag was a bright red.

"You okay?" Frida asked.

Sandy said nothing, only stepped farther away from the shed, dragging Jane with her.

"Sandy," Frida called out, but Sandy was already halfway to the garden, where Bo, Garrett, and Cal were bending over something in the dirt.

Frida followed them. When Sandy saw Frida behind her, she forced a smile and said, "Oh! I almost forgot. We brought you some stuff."

The Millers had come bearing gifts. A rabbit, already skinned and ready to roast. Also some chanterelles. "Sandy will show you how to find those," Bo said to Frida. The subtext being: I hunt. You, Woman, shall gather.

The third gift was the most surprising. Sandy smiled at her, as if to say, Let's forget about what happened in the shed, and pulled from their bag a box of Band-Aids. Frida yanked it out of her hand.

"Where the fuck did you get this?" she asked.

"Frida, calm down," Cal said, but Bo was laughing. In another minute, Sandy was, too; she seemed totally relaxed now. Frida felt relieved.

"It's okay," Sandy said. "They are exotic, aren't they."

Frida flipped open the tin's lid. Inside, the Band-Aids behaved so well, lined up like schoolchildren. Already she was imagining plucking one out. Its white wrapper thin as rice paper, and those tiny blue arrows at the top. Open here. How it would peel back so easily to reveal the Band-Aid itself, nestled flat inside. Frida's stomach fluttered. She could have sucked on it. The salty, pretzel taste of wounds.

"Thank you," Frida said finally. "How long have you had these?"

"A few weeks," Bo said. "We traded for them."

Excerpted from California by Edan Lepucki. Copyright © 2014 by Edan Lepucki. Excerpted by permission of Little Brown & Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.