“It doesn’t matter,” Sarah said. “She moved with the group farther south, then across the border and off the grid, and then she completely cut off contact.”

“At least you saw her again,” said Matthew.

“It’s true. I did. I saw her once, over a year ago. Matthew and I had just gotten back together. He was across the world when she called home and said she was ready for a visit. I flew to where she was then—who knows where she is now, we can’t find her anymore—and she said she wanted to tell us in person that we needed to let her go. That she was healthier and happier not being in touch with family. She said she harbored neither anger nor ill will. She wanted us to see just how well she was doing. It all sounded as if she’d been given a script.”

“I’m so sorry,” Kiki said.

“By the time I flew down there, only a week or so later, the whole operation was gone,” Matthew said. “They must have picked up and left right after Sarah did. No one in the town around there knew who I was talking about. It was like they’d never been there.”

“Jesus,” said Arman. “Jesus.”

“These days”—Sarah swirled ice in her glass—“here’s what I think with some frequency: ‘Fuck yoga.’ Just, seriously? ‘Fuck yoga.’ Isn’t that stupid?”

Matthew picked up their bags.

“But you can’t go now,” Kiki cried. “Please don’t go.”

Sarah felt a smile coming on, cracking her face wide open. “‘Please don’t go,’” she repeated, and felt the smile in her chest, her toes. “‘We’ll eat you up—we love you so.’”

“What?” Arman asked, baffled, mirroring her smile.

“Maurice Sendak,” said Matthew. “Where the Wild Things Are.”

Kiki and Arman stared back at them, uncomprehending. They hadn’t yet spent hours and hours reading books to their child, hadn’t watched that child relish the repetition of her favorites. They didn’t yet have boxes of children’s books with which they couldn’t bear to part. They had it all ahead of them.

“I’m sorry I lied,” said Sarah. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about your neighbor and about—” She shook her head, unable to continue, and reached for Kiki’s hands. Sarah pulled Kiki into a hug, trying and failing to catch her breath. She was taller than Kiki but Kiki’s arms were longer, and she wrapped those pale arms around Sarah, holding her tight. They stayed there together and Kiki smelled like flowers and powder and slightly sour milk. Sarah let her vision blur and didn’t worry about how she was wetting Kiki’s perfect, chic pajama dress with stupid, pointless tears. How could a person cry so much? She supposed it was similar to eating and drinking and sex; it felt novel every time.