A small hand slides into mine, squeezes. Tears streak her small heart-shaped face. “You can come with me, Ms. Claire. Okay? I think Ms. Kiko is upstairs. I’ll take you to her. Okay, Ms. Claire?” Her voice is soft, the words lilting up at the end, as though she’s speaking to a small child. But I can’t feel the sweetness of it—not now, not when I’m afraid to speak. Afraid I’ll scream if I do. There’s a space inside me that’s not filled anymore. I can feel it even if my brain doesn’t let me see it. But I don’t want to see it, don’t want to acknowledge a loss this big. I’d rather forget.

She leads me to the elevator and I stare at the lights as we rise up one floor; then I follow her down the hall to the community room. Inside are voices I know. Ruth, Sefina, Kiko. The girl murmurs something, but I can’t string her words together, not over the buzzing in my head.

“I don’t understand,” I croak.

She stops, turns to face me, her hand on the doorknob. “My name is Maree and you are Ms. Claire, and this is a thing for us to remember your dad.”

I can’t breathe, can’t speak; I hold my stomach because I think I might throw up.

She opens the door. “Ms. Kiko,” she calls into the room. “I think I did something really, really bad.” She hiccups over her tears. “I didn’t know.”

Kiko, Ruth, and Sefina rush toward both of us. Maree quickly disappears inside Kiko’s hug, but I can still see the girl’s back shaking, and I feel a twinge for her sorrow too.

The room is empty of people, but it’s filled with rows of chairs, and at the front of the room stands an easel with an enlarged photo of Dad and me on the bank of our favorite fishing cove, a silver salmon hanging in the air between us. The picture is newer; I can tell because I look the same and Dad—I have to swallow a lump because Dad is not the age I remember him. He is older, his once blond hair a silvery gray, beard thick and fuller, longer than I ever remember it being, looking even more the mountain man he already is. The picture and easel are covered in paper flowers, big bright ones of all different sizes and colors, the kind that kids might have made in school as a craft activity.

Ruth steps into my line of vision, and her face fills me with fear, because she’s doing something I’ve never, ever seen her do, not even when her husband disappeared through the tunnel and never came back.

Ruth is crying.