The bear is back in its original position, its face surprised, as if it has just been stumbled upon in the woods. Mary expects to see it breathing, but the body holds still. The only appearance of disorder is the missing leg.

Dr. Fisher puts the strap of the pocketbook over his shoulder and picks up the leg with both hands. He fingers the claws and looks at Mary carefully. His eyes are the same brown as the bear’s. “Did you do this?”

“No,” Mary says. “It fell off.”

“We can’t have that,” Dr. Fisher says, frowning. He takes off his jacket, folds it and sets it aside with the purse. A small sewing kit appears from his back pocket. He chooses a needle and thread and looks for a way to reattach the leg. “I’ll need you to get hold around the front and lift.”

Mary pauses. She is afraid to get close. Dr. Fisher crouches, waiting. She steps onto the pedestal, her sneakers hovering near the edge. There is a slight give as Mary reaches around the body. The weight is similar to her father’s after his first operation, when she had to boost him onto the toilet. He could barely stand for her to do this. After he finished she would pat her father’s arm, meaning, I would do anything for you, and this is what Mary finds herself thinking as she touches the bear’s fur. The animal stays frozen, impassive as a table. There is a smell coming from its mouth.

“My mother taught me how to sew before she died,” Dr. Fisher says. “She was afraid I’d never get married.” He breaks off a length of string with his teeth.

Mary waits for the bear to move in her arms. She watches Dr. Fisher sew. The back of his neck is shaved in a clear, straight line. “My father doesn’t believe in marriage.”

“Wasn’t he married to your mother?”

“Yes,” Mary says. “It was a mistake.”

“So you’re off the idea?”

“Not really,” she says. “But I can’t imagine being that close to anyone.” He looks up, studying her face, and she blushes. The leg dangles loosely from the bear’s shoulder.

“You can let him down now.”

Mary bends, slowly releasing the weight to the floor. When she takes her hands away, they are covered with dust.

Her father insists on coming to see the finished paintings. “This is your first opening,” he says. “I’m not going to miss it.”