Predawn dark lurks outside the windows, the quiet delivery of the newspaper anticipated. I have already washed dishes in sudsy water, roasted potatoes and celeriac for dinner, now brussels sprouts sizzling in the olive-oiled pan. My children are twisted in their fleece blankets, flushed faces a bit pink. They breathe lightly. Somewhere in Mongolia’s darkening evening, a woman is milking: the horse for ayrag spirits, the yak for salty milk tea, the goats for cheese and dried yogurt, food that kept Genghis Khan on the move across the steppes, food for her children curled in sleep under felt blankets, stars settling behind western hills. They breathe lightly.