The boy, noticing her glance, looked downward and said, “Oh, I made it—the shirt. Long story.” Then he sat again.

That was it for a moment. Neither spoke. The introduction was left awkwardly unfinished.

Amelia’s throat tightened with disappointment. She had envisioned this morning differently. She had seen herself blissfully alone (except for Louise) at her usual spot, absorbed in her work. And now she was faced with the nephew in the wedding cake shirt, hogging the table with his enormous sketchbook and several large photography and art books opened to pictures of the Eiffel Tower. Why the Eiffel Tower? “Where is Louise?” she asked, her voice oddly pitched.

“Right here.”

Amelia turned around to see Louise bracketed by the doorframe for a second before she stepped into the workroom. Louise’s entrance was a bright spot in what was already a not-so-bright day. It was the suddenness of the entrance that made it all the brighter.

“Breakfast,” said Louise, smiling. With one hand she raised a bag from the coffee shop down the street; her other hand held a Styrofoam cup with a plastic lid. Her round, welcoming face was vivid from the crisp air. When she crossed the room to her desk in the back, Amelia could smell the lovely, sugary smell of bakery. Louise set down the bag and took a sip from her cup. “So you’ve met—yes?”

After a pause, Amelia said, “Not really.”

“Sort of,” said the boy.

“All right,” said Louise. “Amelia Albright, meet my nephew, Casey Kirkwood-Cole.” A kindly smile. “And, Casey—this is Amelia.” Louise nodded to each. “Casey’s staying with me all week. So he’ll be here—working, making art, keeping me company. . . .” She gave him a significant look, eyes widening, a look Amelia thought was full of love and sadness. “And—you’re both twelve,” she added with a little too much exuberance, as if this had just occurred to her and was particularly meaningful.

Casey cocked his head slightly—a kind of shrug.

Amelia tried to hide her feelings. She hugged herself. Her expectations for the day—the week!—had crumbled. “Hi,” she managed to say.

Casey said, “Hey,” and motioned with his hand, his pencil/drumstick laced between his fingers.

“I got doughnuts at the coffee shop,” said Louise. “Who’s hungry?”

“I am,” said Casey, perking up, rubbing his hands together like a fly, having stuck his pencil into his mass of hair.

It—this morning—wasn’t what she’d planned on, that was certain, but it was what it was. She had nowhere to go, nothing else to do. She’d stay. She’d already shrugged off her jacket and scoped out a new place to work at another table. She really wasn’t hungry, but in an effort to turn the day around, she lied. “Me, too.”

5 • Rabbit

Amelia stared at the lump of clay for about a hundred years. And then she forgot it was a lump of clay and she pushed and pulled and pinched and poked. She smoothed and carved and smoothed. She concentrated. She smashed it flat and began again.