The time before was the world they’d been born into, where their childhoods had taken place, and their parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles had towered over them and taught them how a person was supposed to be. For Leah Hawkins, it had also been the time when people first noticed her ability to dominate the boards for the rebound and then make the three-point shot at the other basket a few seconds later. There was the glory of being the first real female athletic phenomenon in that part of the state, and then the parade of college recruiters had arrived. Next came college, and the bright, early days of her career. It was the time when she first fell in love.

Leah had stopped being resentful about the awful circumstances of that love some time ago—being the other woman, the long-term mistress her married lover had to hide. She was just glad that love had happened, that she’d had those times with Mark. She had not blamed him even then because the circumstances had not been his fault any more than hers, and Mark had, after all, died at her side trying to protect her. That had been on July 19, the final moment of that other lifetime.

After she had visited Marcia Ballard this morning, she had been busy doing practical tasks, and now she was waiting, sitting at one of the best round tables at Steele’s food stand across from the city park, her place shaded by one of the giant oaks. She was having a root beer float, something she hadn’t had in years. That was one blessing Leah had never fully appreciated when she was younger. She had complained to the silent universe about being a tall, skinny, big-footed scarecrow, awkward except when she was on a court or a field. But the compensation was that she could still eat anything without consequences.

She looked up at the oaks. She had noticed during her errands this morning that some of the saplings the city had planted on empty lots where houses had burned down seven years ago were already fifteen-foot trees. Someday they would be as big as these, and the reason for their planting would be forgotten.

A couple walked up the sidewalk past the stand and the man, Carlos Estrada, noticed her and stopped. “Hi, Chief.”

“Hi, Carlos,” she said. She stood and hugged him and then hugged his wife. “Hi, Lois.” She added, “You know it’s not ‘Chief’ anymore though. I’ve been retired for years.”

“I know.” Carlos looked down for a second, then up. “And I know this is a hard day. But I, uh—”