She said it so naturally that I was halfway into another thought before I realized what she had said. Decisions? What kind of “decisions” needed to be made about Wi-Fi?

Well, sometimes technophobes didn’t know what they didn’t know. Olivia, one of the girls at Palmer House, was like that. We all spent a surprisingly enjoyable evening investigating exactly how she thought the internet worked—something to do with your phone loading up data when you plugged it in. Tam actually convinced her that she could wirelessly charge her phone by setting it on top of a package of AA batteries from the supply closet.

“If you like, the bathroom in the nursery can be your own,” Laura said to me. “We’ve had a larger one modified for Agatha, with a walk-in shower and safety rails.”

We reached an open door and Laura beckoned me in. It was a huge bathroom, exactly as she’d described, the walls lined with handles and the shower wide open so you didn’t have to step over the side of a tub. There was a chair in there, and a row of bath products—expensive-looking shampoos and conditioners, a comb, a loofah. On the wall hung a plush pink bathrobe. Beneath it, waiting neatly on a bench, was a pair of folded pink pajamas, a little square of undies, and a pair of pink ballet-style slippers.

“We’ll be finished in about twenty minutes,” Laura said. “Why don’t you shower? It always feels good to get cleaned up after a day of traveling. Maybe after I put Agatha to bed, we can talk for a few minutes and get to know each other.”

“Okay,” I said, but to be honest, I wasn’t sure I needed another round of awkward conversation to cap off this endless day.

“I’ve stocked the bathroom with towels and a few bath products for you,” she said. “Some of my favorites. If you don’t like them, we can get whatever you prefer. And I also left you a pair of pajamas—I didn’t know if you brought any.”

“Wow, thank you,” I said, feeling genuinely touched by her thoughtfulness.

“Agatha, let’s go,” she said.

But Agatha seemed not to have heard her. She stared at the wall.

“Your ears must be painted on today,” Laura said, gently guiding her into the bathroom and then closing the door.

I stood in the hallway, rooted in place.

When she thought I was ignoring her, Mom used to ask me, Are your ears painted on?

A little tornado of longing and grief seemed to move through my body. And when it was gone, I felt emptier than ever.

But I was also . . . intrigued. And as I listened through the door to the sound of water running, of footsteps, of a quiet, instructive voice, the curiosity sharpened into a feeling that could almost be described as hunger.