“We’ll do our best to save what we can,” the firefighter assured us, “but there may not be much left standing by the time the fire’s put out.”

I don’t think Mom could stand to watch the firefighters continue to blast water at our home, or to watch its blackened remains smolder once they were done. She’d already watched fire devour all of her possessions once before, and experiencing that once in a lifetime was enough. And I knew what Mom was thinking: The few remaining material objects that had once belonged to Jennie during her short life were gone now. It was obvious from the position of the flames that the garage and everything inside of it was destroyed past the point of salvation. For Mom, not a single thing in the house mattered more than that handful of items boxed in the garage.

Not knowing what else to do with myself and not having anywhere else to go, I accompanied Mom to the hospital in Ortonville, carrying the mason jar along with me. Once Mom was settled in the waiting room, I told her I’d fetch her some coffee and a sandwich from the cafeteria, considering that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning. As I passed the intake desk, I asked the nurse for a piece of tape and a marker, wrote MISCHA and my phone number on the piece of tape, and applied it to the side of the jar—just in case I happened to misplace the jar at some point and someone mistook it for trash. Once I walked the length of the first-floor hallway to reach the cafeteria, I sat down at a table and placed the jar before me.

The smell of detergent overpowered the scent of french fry grease and stale coffee. I knew from past visits to the hospital that the noxious vapors would follow me out of the building when we left that night, clinging to my clothes and hair. I already smelled like a campfire, since tiny particles of my incinerated home covered my skin and clothing. I was so exhausted that my muscles ached, but the fluorescent lighting overhead was harsh enough to prevent me from getting drowsy.

I probably should have called my dad to tell him about the house. There was a chance he might have thought I should extend my trip to help Mom get settled, since he would have known better than anyone how devastating this must have been for her. But there was still a chance he would have insisted that I change my ticket and fly back to Florida the next day instead of on Tuesday—which would have been perfectly reasonable if it weren’t for the fact that I’d accidentally made the situation with the curse exponentially worse that afternoon.

So instead of calling him, I tapped Mrs. Robinson’s name on my contacts list, and fervently prayed that she’d answer.

“Well, Happy Easter,” Mrs. Robinson greeted me cheerfully. “He is risen!”

“Uh, yeah,” I said. The religious significance of the traumatic day was totally lost on me.