Now, Maddy was almost asleep, and Josie realized that Matthew was eleven months—only three months younger than Madeline—when he died. He hadn’t looked so little then, his body laid out in a sailor suit, but with the baby across Josie’s lap, she imagined how small he must have been. She had kissed his forehead at the funeral. She remembered the way her father had lifted her and she had placed her lips on Matthew’s skin. It felt exactly the same as it always had, but she understood that he was dead, that there was no more Matthew. And then there had been the service. She hadn’t been interested in the funeral then. She had played with the paper program, twisting it into a bow tie, wondering when she could look at the picture book of horses someone had brought her; and then back at the house, the rain. After, when Alba found her outside, she bundled Josie in flannel pajamas and an assortment of quilts and left her in front of the television. It was an adult show, a soap opera, and she lay on the couch and for a short time watched the people talk animatedly about something, but she was hot under all those layers, and she remembered that she peeled off her pajamas and cocooned herself in the quilts. It was warm, and the quilts made the fading light muted and hazy, and she felt alone, but safe.