It’s time, isn’t it? I know. I go to her dresser. Lift the lid on her wooden box of keepsakes. Her driver’s license and her Indian Head penny go into my pocket. Her license is still valid. I wouldn’t be able to drive with it, but if I needed to use it to apply for something else, like a passport . . . Her birthdate, 1929—I’ll say it was a typo, obviously it should be 1992. Just look at me, come on. You know the DMV; their systems are a mess. I can picture it—it could work. And the name, Jesus: Bryony Nuala Euphemia Featherstonhaugh. No wonder people call her the Duchess. What a fucking mouthful. But lots of people have names they have to grow into. I’ll grow fast. The penny is just for luck, like a brave, that’s what she said. I’m going to need it.

Outside I’m feeling lighter. The day has turned pretty. I spot a cluster of yellow dock and stop on the grass, chew the leaves into a thick green paste, and rub it over the bites and stings on my legs and linger, staring at a bee clinging to a purple thistle nearby. It reminds me of someone sucking my nipples and I laugh out loud, grateful for the joke. It would be nice to have someone to point it out to. Never mind.

There’s the ocean. There it always is, waiting for me. And now I have to cross it.

The seagulls bark like guard dogs.

Bells tinkle gently as I let myself into Rose’s shop. The earthy smell coats my nostrils. I want to leave her a note or something, but there are no words anymore. Her playing cards are stacked next to the cash box; I fan through and find the queen of spades and leave it on top. I place a nickel on top of that for the three apples I place in my bag. She’ll know it’s from me, as a thank-you, an I’ll never forget you. An I love you, even. Rose will appreciate that.

I let myself into Mrs. Tyburn’s house with her old-fashioned key, tiptoe into the foyer and through to the living room, scanning the ground floor. Fabergé eggs, porcelain figures, the grape shears and olive pitter, a small but really heavy picture frame, a shiny walnut box with satin lining. And the cash she keeps in the drawer by the chair where she has her martini in the evening. Everything is heavy, even the envelope of bills. Everything feels solid and steady, in its proper place. Too easily missed. And I can’t be someone who robs old ladies, especially not Swans. I’d be taking much more than fancy eggs and pointless silverware.