Mrs. Wine appears, adjusting her wig onto her head. “Come, girls, it’s time.” She smooths a wisp of hair from Honey’s forehead, and with her other hand she rubs my back. “The mitzvah of comforting a mourner is so important because it’s an act of kindness to both the living and the departed—a true chesed.” She gives my back a final pat. “Come.”

Mr. Sandler’s house is in one of the new developments. When we finally find it, it looks like it might be carried away by ants. There are so many arms and heads and people overflowing its tiny, neat frame. There is no one else here our age, but there are more high school and college kids than at a music festival. Mrs. Wine heads directly over to three people sitting on low chairs, their shirts torn as a Jewish sign of mourning. An older man and woman wearing hotel slippers, their faces gray, talk to a group of people. Slightly apart from them is a small, really young-looking woman, her feet covered in fuzzy socks, a large rip in the collar of her white blouse. Mrs. Wine takes her hand.

“I’m so sorry for your incredible loss,” Mrs. Wine tells her. I realize with a pang that this is Mrs. Sandler. Her short, dark hair has a cool style, but it is greasy and her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, with purple hollows underneath.

“This is my daughter and her friend. They were students of your husband’s this year. He even got my Honey to pick up a book.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Mrs. Sandler. I don’t think she hears me. Behind her is a dressmaker’s dummy stuck with pins, something shimmery draped over it, and next to that are bookshelves overflowing with books. It is easier to look at the dummy guarding the bookshelves than at her. On the bookshelf I can see a whole row of books with familiar spines. I start in surprise—it’s the Most Likely To … series. Mr. Sandler said he was familiar with them, but I guess he must really like—have really liked—them too.

“Mr. Sandler was my favorite teacher,” Honey says, and I pull my eyes away from the bookshelf. “But he especially loved Milla. She’s really good at English.” I try to give Honey a look, but she’s focused on Mrs. Sandler and doesn’t notice. “She’s going to be in the speech contest next week.”

“Raphi loved the speech contest,” Mrs. Sandler says simply. “He loved his students.” She smiles wanly at me.

“I’ll make some meals for you and your kids when the shiva is over,” Mrs. Wine says. Mrs. Sandler nods and looks toward three dark-haired little boys building a tower of blocks on the floor as shoes and boots tramp past them and around them. I hadn’t even thought about Mr. Sandler being married. Or what his kids might be like. The middle boy looks just like him. There’s so much I didn’t know about Mr. Sandler, and now he’s gone. I have a huge lump in my throat. The house is steaming from so many people, but I feel a chill inside me. Honey strides over to the three little kids, whose tower has just been accidentally knocked down by a teenage sneaker scurrying over it.