Saturday then Tuesday came and went, without change. On Wednesday and on Friday it snowed. He woke up in the middle of the night thinking about snow clinging to the ends of Kate’s hair and the slope of her back when she sat on the stool, then scolded himself until dawn. He tried to think of how to mention, offhand, to Paula that Kate’s birthday was approaching. But, as usual, she was three steps ahead of him. “I completely forgot to tell you,” she said at dinner. “I asked Kate to stay for dinner this Tuesday. It’s her cumpleaños.”

“Her birthday?” He feigned uncertainty.

“Have you been listening at the door, Dad?”

He wished he had the nerve.

“What should we get her?” Paula asked.

“How about a brooch?” he suggested.

“A brooch? What’s that?”

“You know a sparkly”—he put his fingers on his chest—“pin thing.”

“Oh my God. You are not serious.”

“Then make her something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. A drawing. A necklace. Or, what about doing what you used to do to the gravel?”

“Dad!”

Mitchell, remembering the hours Paula had spent with her rock polisher, lamented the loss of the driveway as a primary source of entertainment and gifts. He knew he’d have to drive Paula to the mall.

They saw Kate there that Sunday in the food court. She was eating a burrito, alone. Both he and Paula had the same irrational impulse to conceal themselves, for fear that she would guess their purpose, and shadow her through the shops in order to discover her preferences. After lunch, she went to the perfume counters in Macy’s. A saleslady offered her some powder on a brush, but Kate shook her head and said something that made the woman laugh. Mitchell’s chest contracted slightly at being denied the words. Then they watched her weave through the smaller stores with their red streamers and glittering hearts and loud reminders like Sweetheart and Someone Special.

“She seems sad,” Paula said.

Mitchell was relieved she’d noticed. He thought it was just his own wishful thinking.

Kate didn’t buy anything. They watched her leave the mall, scan the parking lot for her car, then head toward it. There was nothing outside—not above or below or in the trees beyond the mall—that wasn’t some shade of gray. The cold had eased and everything that had been solid was now a thick, filthy sludge.

“It’s an awful time of year to have a birthday.”