Nenee’s still looking toward the car, the corner of her mouth twitching down, up and down again. “My daughter and I have been out of contact for a long time, if I’d known I would have—”

Lettie holds up a hand. “I know.” She rests the hand on Nenee’s arm, making her flinch. “I have kids,” Lettie says in a voice I’ve not heard before. “One dead and one in another state. We love them. They’re not ours.”

Nenee blinks and looks at Lettie for the first time. She nods and straightens her jumper. Holds out her hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. Noni.” They shake.

Nenee clears her throat. “Thank you for keeping an eye on Rae. I’m glad you were here to do it.” And they stand, hands still clasped, bird-eyeing each other. I think they’ve forgotten about me.

I clear my throat too. “Would it be okay if Lettie came to visit sometimes?”

Nenee looks at me and then back to Lettie. “Of course. Of course it would.” She gives a tight smile. “You’d be very welcome, Lettie.”

“Thank you.” They tight-smile each other. I’ve become invisible again. Splinter leans on my leg and I give him a scratch. He sneezes, making them both look.

Lettie coughs. “Now off you go. You’ve got a long drive ahead and you’ve not even got that car packed.” I stand up for a hug. She gives my back a pat and shoves me toward the gate.

I help Splinter down the step and walk to the car. Stupid old goat. I look back at her. She looks smaller than usual standing on the porch. I drop Splinter’s lead, run back and throw myself at her, balling the back of her jacket in my fists.

She staggers back a step. “Ooof. I think you’ve winded me.” But her arms are strong, and they wrap all the way around. She leans down and whispers in my ear. “Good luck, kiddo. You know where I am.” Then she lets go and gives me another gentle push toward the gate.

NENEE PILES MY stuff into her little car. She insisted we bring some of my bedroom furniture, so it felt more like home at her place. So my lamp, my duvet and the small step stool I use as a bedside table are coming too. I can’t see how everything and us will fit in her little car. I sit on the doorstep, my arm around Splints, and watch. Splinter chews at the strap of his wheel leg. I haven’t put it on him. The vet said he won’t need it—as soon as he settles into three legs he’ll be as fast and steady as he was with four. He likes to chew it, though, and push it around with his nose.