I meet Ruth in the lobby, and when I get there, a waterfall of young voices floats from the area by the front door. A dim light, the brightest it gets in winter, stretches lazily inside, highlighting fingerprint smudges and one that looks like lips pressed into the window. Beside me, Ruth mumbles something under her breath as we make our way past the kids and toward the front doors. I don’t have to understand her to know what she says, because Ruth is of the opinion that the kids shouldn’t be allowed to hang out in the lobby after school. Isn’t that what the playground is for? Or their apartments?

“Hi, Ms. H.!” says a girl with blonde hair that’s shaved on both sides so that she looks like she has a long Mohawk on top. A smaller girl beside her giggles. “Maree’s not here.”

“Okay,” I respond with a smile that I hope doesn’t look as vacant as it feels.

Beside me Ruth grunts, leans toward me, and whispers, “You’ve been giving guitar lessons to Maree, and she’s also Tate’s daughter.”

My hand goes to my chest.

She touches my arm, her eyes soft. “They moved here a few months ago. You know all about it, but you’re still adjusting to it.”

I let the news settle, give Ruth a grateful smile. “Okay, thank you.”

The glass in the doors is frosted white on the edges, tiny sparkling snowflakes frozen into the corners. When I push against the door, it resists, the wind outside slipping between cracks, howling to come inside, and already my nose starts to drip. Ruth and I pull our hats low, wrap our scarves extra tight, and step outside into the bitter cold.

The ice on Ruth’s windshield is thin but stubborn. I’ve built up a sweat trying to scrape it off, but when I finish, Ruth’s old Jeep is warmed up enough to drive, and I slide into the passenger seat, my cheeks tingling from the hot air that blasts through the vents. Ruth pats the dashboard. “Old girl still gets hot.”

I laugh and shake my head, pull my notebook out of my bag, locate the pages for today, February 20. Errands in Anchorage, Ruth will drive—and then a note that lifts my eyebrows. Tate’s daughter, Maree, is turning 10 on February 23. You will bake a cake. Get her a present in Anchorage, something to do with Audrey Hepburn. Ask Ruth for help.

“So,” I begin, “I’d like to get Maree a birthday gift.”

“That’s nice.”

“She loves old movies and Audrey Hepburn,” I say. “Maybe we can find like an old movie-poster print somewhere.”

“That’s a great idea.”