THE HOSPITAL SAID MY NINE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER WAS GONE — AND MY HUSBAND BE.GGED THEM NOT TO LET ME SEE HER. TWO WEEKS AFTER THE FU.NERAL, OUR LOYAL DOG DR.OPPED HER YELLOW CARDIGAN AT MY FEET. IT WASN’T TORN. IT SMELLED LIKE HER SHAMPOO. AND THE SLEEVES WERE STILL WET WITH PURPLE PAINT.

The latch clicked.

It was just me and Scout.

Barefoot.

In a bathrobe.

In an orchard full of rotten apples.

Dale stopped about twenty feet away.

He looked older.

Thinner.

His face was the same.

That was the worst part.

It was still the same face.

“Hannah,” he said.

He smiled.

He used to smile like that before.

Right before.

“Look at you.”

“Out here in your robe.”

“You always did look good when you were scared.”

“Go back to your truck, Dale.”

“You know, I went to her fu.neral.”

“Well.”

“Across the street.”

“Sat there the whole time.”

“Thinking how funny it is.”

“A little white box.”

“And nobody ever lets the mother look.”

He tilted his head.

“Then your dog starts running to the same spot every day.”

“Then you come flying out the back door without your shoes.”

“Now why would you do that?”

“For a kid who’s gone?”