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.

“Yes,” I said.

“Me too,” she said.

Then she sat back and buckled in tighter.

At the light on Calloway Road, I stopped.

Green.

I didn’t move.

The car behind me honked.

I didn’t care.

I looked both ways.

Twice.

Three times.

Then I drove through.

I walked her all the way to the classroom door.

Mrs. Okafor hugged her so hard she squeaked.

Ruby turned around in the doorway.

“You’re staying?” she said.

“Right here,” I said.

“The whole time?”

“The whole time.”

I sat in the hallway on a plastic chair for two hours.

Through the little window in the door, I could see her.

Brush in her hand.

Purple to the knuckles.

Humming.

Four notes up.

Two notes down.