The way she says forgot like it’s something she knows about me, like it’s written across my forehead in thick black letters, inches up my back. But I ignore it because she’s just a child, and kids can say all kinds of things they don’t mean or completely understand. I grab a paper towel and press it into her palm, examine the cut, which is small and mostly superficial. Just in case, I check my pocket, and to my delight I pull out a slim Band-Aid.

Her eyes widen and I see that they are a dark blue ringed in green. “You didn’t actually forget, you just forgot that you remembered! That’s great!” She reaches to take it from my hand. “I can do it myself.”

“No worries,” I say and open the slim package, pull it apart, and have the Band-Aid on her small wound in seconds. “I used to be a teacher, you know.”

She holds her hand to her chest, stares at me like perhaps I’ve grown a pair of purple horns. I touch the top of my head—nope. A chunk of her hair falls away from the toilet paper roll on her head and lands squarely in front of one eye. The cardboard roll, finally released, falls to the floor amid the broken glass between us.

“Aw, hell,” she says, and maybe it’s the juxtaposition of her kid voice saying an adult word or the fact that I was just like her at that age or that the kid was wearing a toilet paper roll on her head, but a lightness builds inside and I laugh. I try to stop, cover my mouth with one hand—I don’t want her to think I’m making fun of her—but the entire situation is so bizarre that I can’t help it.

It doesn’t seem to matter because the girl laughs, too, small, light giggles that fill the kitchen. It’s surreal and sweet, and a lump blooms in my throat.

“What’s up with the hair?” I say. I could ask her why she’s here, but that would be acknowledging how much I don’t know, so instead I play along, figuring that the answers will uncover themselves if I just look for clues. I’m very good at figuring these types of situations out.

“I already told . . .” She wrinkles her nose, stops midsentence, and begins to pick up the glass, throws it into the trash can I pulled out from under my sink, and together we finish cleaning up the mess.

We’ve both risen to our feet and stand opposite one another in my small kitchen. “I like your glasses,” I say.

She nods, her lips quirked up at the sides. The kid is cute, I’ll give her that.