The room is packed; there are hundreds of people there. When the ceremony is over, one by one the mourners come to speak to Lissa to say good-bye. Her dad is there, with her stepmother, and he holds her for a long moment before releasing her again. It is then that she sees them—Hannah and Cate. They must have been here all along.

“Oh,” says Lissa, looking at her friends. “Oh,” she says again.

Hannah reaches her hand to Lissa and Lissa takes it.

“You’re pregnant,” she says, and it is only now that she begins to cry.

“Yes,” says Hannah.

And now she is nodding, grinning stupidly in this sun. “Look at you,” she says. “You look wonderful.” And it is true, Hannah does; she is a fine ripe fruit.

“I came for Sarah,” says Hannah. “I came to say good-bye.”

“Yes.” Lissa nods. “Thank you.” And then, “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry. Please, forgive me.” And then, for she cannot truly believe it, “You’re pregnant,” she says again. “Can I? May I?” She holds out her hand.

Hannah nods, lets her place her hand on her stomach.

And now Lissa is laughing, standing in the sunshine with her hand like this, on the taut skin with the life beneath, laughing and crying and shaking her head.

THE HOUSE IS quiet. Laurie had offered to come back with her, as had Johnny, but Lissa refused. I’ll be fine, she said.

There are books left open on the tables, and she lifts them gently and closes them, placing them back on the shelves. The kitchen has their breakfast things still sitting in the sink. She rinses the bowls and puts them on the side, then props open the door to her mother’s garden. Sunlight pools on the floor. She pours herself a gin and tonic and rolls a cigarette.

She lifts the drink to the urn, which rests on the kitchen table. On Monday, as promised, she will go to Greenham with Laurie and Ina and Caro and Rose, and leave some of her mother’s ashes by the tree. The rest Sarah has asked her to scatter in the garden, wherever you like. She’ll do it tomorrow, alone.

In her inbox is a ticket to Mexico. Her flight is next week. She has no plans, only a vague destination—a town on the Pacific coast. It is not an ending or a new beginning. Or perhaps it is. But if it is an ending, it is not clean, or neat—it is simply the part where one pattern joins another. It is made of blood and sinew and bone.

When she has finished her cigarette, Lissa shuts and locks the door. She comes over to the table. How many hours spent here? How many breakfasts and lunches and dinners? How many times was she put here, with drawing materials or crafts, and told to look after herself?