Morgan’s eyes slowly closed. Her chin rumpled and began to quiver. “I’m sorry,” she squeaked.

“I told you never to go looking for her, didn’t I? How many times did I say that if you start looking for a castaway, all you end up doing is calling attention to yourself, making the nightmare notice you?”

A thick wedge of tension was driven between them.

Joyce ultimately rose to collect the rudiments of breakfast.

She peered out at the back yard. The birds must have awoken and flown.

Morgan was unable even to consider eating the bowl of cold cereal that had been placed before her. Joyce smoked cigarettes over her own, allowing the fallen ashes to darken the milk like polluted snow.

The telephone’s ring jolted the pair of them—Morgan from the unexpectedness, Joyce from its kinship to her most recent nightmare. They let the answering machine take the call:

“Hello, Joyce? This is Alex from the store. I’m just checking to see if you were aware that you were scheduled to be our opening cashier this morning. Your shift started forty minutes ago, so if you could give me a call back as soon as you get this that would be great.”

The sing-song tone of her supervisor’s voice both masked anger and betrayed an utter lack of concern for what might have prevented Joyce from fulfilling her retail duties.

Joyce rose and yanked the phone cord from its jack. She returned to the nook and lit a fresh cigarette.

“Can I have one of those?” Morgan asked. There was no longer a need for pretence.

Joyce flicked the pack across the table. Morgan felt as though she might be graded on her smoking skills. She cleared her throat and then confessed.

“I wanted to know…know who she was.”

“I told you, you can’t,” Joyce barked. “Do I have to engrave it on your forehead? You can’t and you won’t.”

“But you knew her.”

Joyce sighed. “Yes,” she said, “but I knew her before she fell into it.”

“Well I wasn’t around before.”

“I know you weren’t.”

Smoking was evidently new to Morgan. Joyce noted the way her face was beginning to blanch.

“Let me ask you,” Morgan began, “did you know your mother?”

Joyce cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“Have lots of good memories of her, do you?” Morgan’s voice was taking on a keen edge.

“Some.”

“Oh? You weren’t taken from her when you were still in diapers? How nice for you.”

Joyce folded her hands before her. In her mind she counted the seconds until an appropriate pause was reached.

“Did you know I once had two sons?”

Morgan did not know how to respond.

Joyce nodded. She was unaware of the fact that she’d begun to cry again until she felt a tear splash upon her still-folded hands.