More suns, rising higher. “Yeah, and the day after that,” I say, and add a brief “bye” before hanging up, holding on to the good.

REX

Carli’s street has a dope canopy of trees. Getting out of my pickup truck, I can’t help but look up at the bright February sun peeking through the leaves of the large oak at the end of her driveway. Through the leaves of the oak beside it. And the one beside that, leaves wilding out in the wind. The sidewalk is lined with live oaks on both sides.

But walking up her driveway, I stop when I notice a sick magnolia tree alone in the middle of her yard. It makes me think about how trees like to grow close to each other. How they depend on each other. Sure, aboveground they may throw a few ’bows to get the most sun. But underground, they share—water, nitrogen, and nutrients—especially when one of them is suffering.

Even the strong trees, like the oak at the bottom of her driveway with the huge trunk and the mature crown stretching across the street, go through things. Even the strong ones do better when they’re not alone.

CARLI

It’s half past noon, and I’m sitting on the sofa in the living room of Daddy’s rental house, which is way out in Woodside, closer to his job. Closer to Rex, too, who’s supposed to be here any minute.

I should be happy that I’m here with Daddy, that I’m about to see Rex. But it feels weird having Rex come here to pick me up for the first time. To this foreign house, where he’ll look at these foreign walls, walk on this foreign carpet, and sit on this foreign couch. And as if all this foreignness wasn’t bad enough, everything is beige. It’s like whoever decorated this house had a motto: If it ain’t beige, I ain’t buying it.

But apparently beige is the color of the universe. Yes, all the color of all the light of all the galaxies amounts to what scientists call cosmic latte—basically beige. Wouldn’t think it, would you? Just found that fact on Google. I needed to find one good thing about this sad color around me, about this sad situation that led us to this sad house where Mom will never be. This bland house with no memories.

I write down the cosmic latte fact in my notebook with my brown Le Pen, cursive letters taking up most of the page, and draw small messy stars all around them, hoping they’ll help light the way forward in this new house. Then I crease the paper around all four sides, folding it back and forth, and run my nail along the creases to make sure the paper tears clean.