“You get more like Claire every day,” Sydney said as they finally stopped in front of a long red brick building. “Well, there it is. Your aunt Claire and I went here. My grandmother never liked to leave the house much, but she would walk me to school every day. I remember that. It’s a good place.”

Bay looked at the building. She knew where her classroom was going to be, through the door and down the hall, the third door on the left. She even knew what it smelled like, like construction paper and carpet cleaner. She nodded. “It’s the right place.”

“Yes,” Sydney said. “Yes, it is. So, are you excited about school?”

“It’s going to be good. Dakota belongs in my class.”

“Who’s Dakota?”

“A boy I met on the Fourth of July.”

“Oh. Well, I’m glad you’re making friends. That’s one thing I wish now that Claire had done,” Sydney said. Sydney talked a lot about Claire these days, and there were times when Sydney and Claire were together that Bay could see, in just the right light, them turn into little girls again. Like they were living life over.

“You should make friends too, Mommy.”

“Don’t worry about me, honey.” Sydney put her arm around Bay’s shoulder and pulled her close as the scent of David’s cologne floated by on the wind. It made Bay afraid for a moment, not for herself but for her mother. It was never Bay her father wanted, anyway.

“We’re close to downtown. Let’s go by Fred’s and get some Pop-Tarts!” Sydney said brightly, in that voice adults always used to try to distract kids from what was really going on. “And you know what I’d really like? Cheetos. I haven’t had Cheetos in a long time. Don’t tell Claire, though. She’ll try to make some herself.”

Bay didn’t argue. Pop-Tarts were good, after all. And she liked them better than her father.

When they reached Fred’s, they walked in and Sydney took a basket by the door. They had just passed the produce section when there was a crash. Suddenly there were hundreds of oranges rolling everywhere, into the bread section, under people’s carts, and Bay could almost hear them laughing, like they were suddenly struck with the joy of freedom. The produce man and a couple of bag boys appeared like the ball catchers at tennis games, as if they’d been crouching nearby, waiting for such a thing to happen.

The culprit was standing by the now-empty orange display, not looking at what he had done but staring straight at Sydney.

It was Henry Hopkins, the man who’d given them ice cream, then sat on their blanket on the Fourth. Bay liked him. He was still, like Claire. Steadfast. Not taking his eyes off Sydney, he walked over to her.

“Hi, Sydney. Hi, Bay,” he said.