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.

Every single morning.

About walking home through the orchard and stopping at our back door.

Watching me through the glass.

Standing in her doorway.

“I’d come in and walk right past you,” he said.

“And you’d look straight through me.”

“And I’d think, she’ll never forgive this.”

“And then I’d think, but Ruby’s breathing.”

“And I’d go lie down and count the hours until five.”

He cried.

I didn’t.

Not that night.

When he left, I didn’t lock the door behind him.

That’s where we are.

It’s not nothing.

Three weeks after the orchard, I drove Ruby to the Wrenfield Arts Center.

Saturday.

Nine-thirty.

She sat in the back seat.

Scout sat beside her.

She wore the yellow cardigan.

I never washed it.

The purple is still on the cuffs.

Halfway there, Ruby leaned forward between the seats.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you scared?”

I thought about lying.

I was done with that.