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.

She stared at the house.

“Is my room still there?”

“Exactly like you left it,” I said.

“Even the sock?”

“Even the sock.”

She walked in first.

She went straight up the stairs.

I heard her door.

I heard her drop onto her bed.

I heard her say, “Hi, Foxy.”

To the stuffed fox.

I stood in the hallway.

Outside her door.

The same spot where I’d stood every morning and every night for fifteen days.

Only now I could hear her breathing.

It wasn’t silent anymore.

It was just quiet.

The kind of quiet where someone is home.

Jason came up the stairs behind me.

Slowly.

One step at a time.

He stopped at the top.

He didn’t come closer.

“Can I say goodnight to her?” he asked.

It was noon.

He asked permission anyway.

“Go ahead,” I said.

He went in.

I heard Ruby laugh.

I stayed in the hall.