Now she sat at her little-girl’s desk in her bedroom and reread this week’s eight-page letter, then signed it Best Friends Forever, Tully vvv, and carefully folded it into thirds.

On her desk was the most recent postcard from Kate, who was away on the Mularkey family’s yearly camping trip. Kate called it Hell Week with Bugs, but Tully was jealous of each perfect-sounding moment. She wished that she’d been able to go on the vacation with them; turning down the invitation had been one of the most difficult things she’d done. But between her all-important summer job and Gran’s declining health, she’d had no real choice.

She glanced down at her friend’s note, rereading the words she’d already memorized. Playing hearts at night and roasting marshmallows, swimming in the freezing lake . . .

She forced herself to look away. It didn’t do any good in life to pine for what you couldn’t have. Cloud had certainly taught her that lesson.

She put her own letter in an envelope, addressed it, then went downstairs to check on Gran, who was already asleep.

Alone, Tully watched her favorite Sunday night television programs—All in the Family, Alice, and Kojak—and then closed up the house and went to bed. Her last thought as she drifted lazily toward sleep was to wonder what the Mularkeys were doing.

The next morning she woke at her usual time, six o’clock, and dressed for work. Sometimes, if she arrived early enough at the office, one of the reporters would let her help with the day’s stories.

She hurried down the hall and tapped on the last door. Though she hated to wake her grandmother, it was the house rule. No leaving without a goodbye. “Gran?”

She tapped again and pushed the door open slowly, calling out, “Gran . . . I’m leaving for work.”

Cool lavender shadows lay along the windowsills. The samplers that decorated the walls were boxes without form or substance in the gloom.

Gran lay in bed. Even from here, Tully could see the shape of her, the coil of her white hair, the ruffle of her nightdress . . . and the stillness of her chest.

“Gran?”

She moved forward, touched her grandmother’s velvet, wrinkled cheek. The skin was cold as ice. No breath came from her slack lips.

Tully’s whole world seemed to tilt, slide off its foundation. It took all her strength to stand there, staring down at her grandmother’s lifeless face.

Her tears were slow in forming; it was as if each one were made of blood and too thick to pass through her tear ducts. Memories came at her like a kaleidoscope: Gran braiding her hair for her seventh birthday party, telling her that her mommy might show up if she prayed hard enough, and then years later admitting that sometimes God didn’t answer a little girl’s prayers, or a grown woman’s, either; or playing cards last week, laughing as Tully swept up the discard pile—again—saying, “Tully, you don’t have to have every card, all the time . . .”; or kissing her goodnight so gently.