Amy took in a slow breath. Molly had been asking questions like this since she could speak: “Who sees the sun first when it leaves our side of the earth?” “Why do dolphins live in the water when they can’t breathe in the water?” “Why don’t dogs have tears?” These were questions that required much more of Amy than the usual distracted answers. Molly’s intense curiosity had never bothered her before, but now, here, she felt like slamming on the brakes of the SUV and dropping her head on the steering wheel in defeat.

Instead, Amy took a deep breath, smiled. “Oh, honey, it just goes so fast, doesn’t it? You were born, it seems like, a week ago.”

I dated Nick just yesterday.

She maneuvered the car around a slow red minivan in front of them and glanced at her daughter.

“That’s not what I mean at all, Mom. I mean really, where does it go? Like that last minute—where did it go? Is there a place it goes, like a recycle bin, or is it just gone?”

Molly’s question carried with it a great somber note and as with all her daughter’s questions, Amy wanted to answer well, and yet she had to admit that she hadn’t, in any way, ever thought about where time went. Maybe that’s what children were for—to make us think about the hard questions . . . and answers.

Molly laid her cheek on the tennis racquet.

Amy turned from her daughter, from the unanswerable question, to the familiar landscape of the city. Oak and spruce trees planted by the original founders of Darby still lined the streets, forced their roots up through sidewalks and streets. Even her hometown was a testament to rooted familiarity and consistency. She knew the name, origin and turn of every street she drove. Mr. Steele still ran the five-and-dime, Mr. Henderson still pushed down a little too hard on the scales when he cut meat at the butcher counter, and the movie theater still had its original marquee with the green lightbulbs.

The road she drove to the tennis complex took her down her childhood street. As she drove past her old home, she slowed at the front lawn. The house still resided in a neighborhood where young families lived with rectangular lawns, metal swing sets and red tricycles. She stared at the top window on the right (her pink childhood bedroom with the Eagles posters) and remembered the countless hours she had spent staring out at the front lawn, at this very street—wondering what had happened to Nick Lowry.

She shook her head and turned to her daughter. “Time . . . maybe it goes behind us, just like this road.”

“No, Mom, I can see the road behind me. And we’ll drive on it tomorrow. It’s still there.”

“We can look back at time. It’s in . . . memory.” Ah, she’d found the answer.