He grabbed her hand and pulled her to him. “You’re too big to be picked up.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek and, as he did, scooped her into his arms and cradled her against him.

“Like this?” he asked.

She felt the marble throb, and she nodded and wound her arms tightly around his neck.

“Baby girl,” he said, and rocked her.

She laid her head on his shoulder and wished she could peel back the years, twenty-seven, twenty-six, twenty-five, until she was six, five, four, and free of everything that came after.

CHAPTER SIX

THE NEXT MORNING, JOSIE LEFT DEVESH’S HOUSE AS THE SUN WAS coming up. Her cell phone rang and she answered it as she quietly closed the front door.

“Hello,” she whispered.

“Are you in a movie?” her mother asked.

“No; it’s six o’clock in the morning.”

“Oh. Sorry. This insomnia is keeping me up again. I figured it had to be daytime somewhere.”

“Well … almost,” Josie said.

“So how’s school?”

“Good.”

“Work?”

“Didn’t we have this conversation last week?” Josie asked. She pulled one of Devesh’s sweatshirts over her head and crossed the street.

Her mother sighed. “Yes, well …” She paused, then started again. “So I bought this book for you. It’s called … wait, let me get my glasses.”

Josie heard a drawer open, some shuffling, then her father’s muffled voice. “Where are you?” Josie asked.

“It’s Josie,” Josie heard her mother say. “No, nothing. Go back to sleep.” There was a pause; then her mother was talking to her again. “Okay it’s called …”

“Why don’t you go out of the bedroom?” Josie asked.

“Yes; that’s a good idea.”

Josie heard her mother walking down the hall, probably to one of the spare bedrooms on the second floor.

“Okay; there.” Her mother sighed. “Now, let’s see. Steffi and I found it together. It’s called The Definitive Guide to Underground Humor: Quaint Quotes About Death, Funny Funeral Home Stories, and Hilarious Headstone Epitaphs. And some of these quotes, Josie, are just too funny. Listen to this: ‘Three days after death, hair and fingernails continue to grow, but phone calls taper off.’ That’s Johnny Carson.”

“Funny,” Josie said. She had to admit, it was an offering.

“And here’s another one: ‘My Uncle Pat, every morning he reads the death column in the paper. And he can’t understand how people always die in alphabetical order.’ Hah! That’s Hal Roach.”

Josie crossed the street and headed down Walker. The sun had now risen, and Josie squinted into the light. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Well, I just saw it and thought immediately of you.”

Josie laughed. “Well, I guess that’s a good thing.”

“Of course it’s a good thing. You’re my little Morbid Munchkin.”

Josie smiled and rolled her eyes.