Marlin’s shoulders trembled and twitched as she arranged the letters for my name. I poured the gold on the sponge and handed it to her, along with a fresh piece of black card stock.

“Thank you,” she said, falling to a whisper. “I keep forgetting she’s not here.”

“That’s probably…normal.”

“I want to,” she said delicately. “I—I can’t.” A tear rolled over her freckles and plopped on the machine. I nearly reached out and hugged her. She breathed in, sucking the air to the bottom of her chest, and pulled the lever—and in doing so, pulled herself back together. Then she wiped her hands against her white overalls, cut and stamped my place card, and stacked it atop the others. “There,” she said. “Count these done.”

“What are they for?” I asked.

“Oh. It’s the summer dinner tomorrow,” she said. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“No.”

“Everyone’s coming,” she said, eyes angling downward, becoming commas. “It was supposed to be fun this time. I’m completely messing it up. Carey used to take care of everything. We did what we were told.”

“It’ll still be fun,” I said, trying to console her.

“It’s never been fun,” she muttered. “Why start now?”

“What do you mean?” I pressed.

“Sometimes I don’t think we even like each other anymore,” she said, stacking paper restlessly, moving it across the room for no reason. “He’s still so angry about it all,” she finished desperately, the sound coming out in a pressured rush, like she was a bellows—and then she clapped her hands over her mouth. From the look on her face, she wanted to claw the words out of the air and take them back.

“That’s okay,” I tried. “People can be angry. He’s allowed to be angry.” I looked up at her freckled face.

She sniffled and squeezed my arm. “I know,” she said. “Thank you.” She wiped her eyes and laughed at herself. “I’m such a mess,” she said. “You must think I’m such a mess.”

“I don’t think that,” I said to her. “I think you’re all still recovering from a tragedy.”

She nodded, collecting herself again, and this time, it stuck. “By the way—everyone is going to be walking around,” she said pointedly, eyes lingering on the hole in my inside-out shirt. “We’ll open our studios. You don’t have to, but you might want to move your painting from upstairs.”

She was clearly aware that I was remaking more than one painting. Yet—it didn’t feel like a threat, coming from Marlin. It felt like a warning.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll move it tomorrow.”

*  *  *