He didn’t look back.
June stood behind the cake table. In front of her: a key, and a cake nobody had finished cutting. The balloons she’d worked on all morning swayed in the wind. The light purple outfit she’d had on all day was blinding in the sun. Nobody looked at it.
Guests picked up their bags and headed out in twos and threes. As they passed June: “Happy birthday.” “We should get going.” “Sophie looks so pretty.” Polite, every single one. They all stepped around her with a smile.
At the door, one old lady stopped, looked back at the cake, and said, “June. Don’t give that medicine to any more kids.”
June stood there. She didn’t answer.
She was still holding the key. Knuckles white.
