Her eyes roll up to the ceiling as though she’s thinking hard. “Well, I can’t remember exactly, but she’s really brave and very strong, and she can’t be with me anymore ’cause she hunts wolves so I can be safe.”

I raise my eyebrows, unsure of how to respond. The story is fantastical but surely laced with some kind of truth. I just don’t think it’s my business to ask.

“My dad tells me a story about her every night before I go to bed. Her name is Uki.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone named Uki.”

She slaps her thigh when she laughs. “But you can’t remember, so how would you know if you ever met her? You’re really funny.”

I can’t help but smile. “Thanks.”

I push a bobby pin into a section of her hair, not sure what to do with this information about her mom, but my heart squeezes for her because I wonder how close this tale is to my own. She’s just been given a better backstory.

She strains her head to look at me over her shoulder, and with her hair pulled out of her eyes, I can see the arch of her thick eyebrows, the light-brown dusting of freckles across her nose and the tops of her cheeks, and I am splintered by a feeling that sends the comb clattering to the floor. I kneel to pick it up and try to squash the sudden desire I have to wrap her into my arms, kiss the very tip of her nose, and ask how school is going. Instead, I cross my arms, plagued by the thought that I could have been a mother today if I’d gone to the doctor when the headaches first started. But I didn’t and my baby died. I squeeze the comb in my hand and stand up, focus instead on finishing the beehive.

“Are you okay?”

I look up, nod. “I’m fine. Just been a long day.”

She stares at me for a moment, then scratches her nose with the palm of her hand, studies her half-finished bun, and makes a face at herself in the mirror. “No offense, but I think I did better with YouTube.”

The edges of my mouth curl into a smile, and I tap her lightly on the shoulder with the comb. “That’s because I’m not finished yet, smarty-pants.”

She runs a hand across her brow. “Whew.” Her eyes brighten. “And my name’s Maree, like Mary with a y but with two e’s. Not Smarty-Pants. And you’re doing my hair into a beehive ’cause I suck at it.”

I smile at her in the mirror. “Thank you, Maree. I think I’m all up to speed now.”