I removed my overcoat, still coolish from the ten-minute walk from my apartment in fifty-degree weather. “My sister made reservations for dinner. Her name is Brittany Stockton.”

“Ah yes, you’re here for the birthday party.” He pointed at me. “Didn’t you have an art show here in January?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Mike. I worked that event.”

Already a lifetime separated me from January. “Great. Thanks for helping out that night.”

“It was fun.”

I searched for hints that Mike and I’d met before, but I found no traces of the encounter. Maybe I simply didn’t notice him in January. Brit told me my art show had been a hive of activity. But my exhibit, like Mike’s shift, had fallen into a ten-day window that I now called the Black Hole.

“I’m also the birthday girl.”

“Ah!” Mike said, smiling. “Happy birthday.”

Brit, like our mother, loved birthdays when we were kids and marked each with a big party. How many times had she destroyed our mother’s kitchen baking cakes for her planned parties? How many paper hats and chains had she made as a kid?

A round table surrounded by six chairs dominated the small room. Each place setting had a decorative birthday hat that appeared to be inspired by The Wizard of Oz and represented one of the story’s main characters: Dorothy, Glinda the Good Witch, the Cowardly Lion, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Wizard.

“Do you feel any older?” Mike joked as he positioned a glass at each of the six place settings.

It was a birthday party for a six-year-old. Typical Brit. She never articulated it with words, but she missed the days when Mommy and Clare were alive, and the Stocktons could pass for normal.

My mouth twitched as I imagined Brit scouring Pinterest and Etsy pages. “This year I’m feeling my age.”

His gaze skittered over my body quickly. “You’ve cut your hair since you were here last.”

My long red hair had been a casualty of the head injury and surgery, and I still missed the weight on my shoulders and the ease of a quick ponytail. Without my signature mane, I didn’t get noticed as much, but in my pre-sobriety days, I’d grabbed a lifetime’s worth of attention, and the way I saw it, the new style served a greater karmic purpose.

Glasses rattled, and I caught myself conjuring a replay of my greatest mistakes. Clearing my throat, I drew in a deep breath. I hung my coat on a peg as Mike pulled out a chair facing the door. I sat in front of the Dorothy hat, which was centered on the plate, doing my best to feel special but already dreading Brit’s plans. Any sign of a clown or a male stripper, and I was outa there.