“Yeah. It came naturally to her. Even in high school, she’d save all her money for trivets instead of movie tickets. In college, she had, like, a tea set and a cheese board with little cheese knives, and she used them. I mean, we were eighteen years old, and she put out a cheese tray when people came over. ‘Company,’ she’d say. ‘We’re having company tonight.’ I’ve always wondered if she did things like that when she was alone, too.” Elizabeth’s focus drifts, fades, realigns. “I never did ask her. Wouldn’t surprise me, though, if she set out a hunk of Maytag Blue, a wedge of brie, and a block of sharp cheddar every night, just for her. Crackers and little knives.”

“Crackers and knives.”

“Want to know what I saw at the moment of impact?”

“Oh, hey. Come on.” I say it sweetly, but it’s an order. “Let’s not.”

“We were listening to From the Mars Hotel, trying to memorize lyrics so we wouldn’t be pariahs among Deadheads, and that song was on and we were singing along. And that truck driver wasn’t paying attention. Maybe he didn’t fall asleep at the wheel. Fine. But he wasn’t watching the road. He just wasn’t. I know, because I saw the deer in perfect silhouette against his headlights, and those lights held steady for a good two seconds at least before they swerved.”

“Elizabeth.” I lay my hand on the table, palm up, but she doesn’t take it.