The fact that the narrator, always called “the child,” remains nameless reflects her stark contrast from her companions. Names are the women’s societal designations, but the protagonist is instead identified by her otherness, both in terms of her much younger age and her lack of a specific name. Indeed, she always feels separate from the group, as when she tells Anthea, “To me it feels as though I have always been alone, even among all of you, because I’m so different” (140).

Twice in the narrative, the protagonist transitions from a loner to someone who treasures human companionship. As a sulky child, she retreats inward. When she starts to feel included, such as when she begins timekeeping, she values her membership in the group. In turn, she puts the group’s interests above her curiosity and believes she becomes “a good companion” (101). Settling down is a big trade-off, however, so when she is alone again, she relishes her solo adventures, even resenting the years of sedentary living. Then, with time, she again craves companionship. She grieves for Anthea, screams out into the wilderness, and welcomes the idea of talking with a corpse.