“An owl told her to.”

“Are you listening to your teacher?”

“I’m always listening.”

“Good. That’s what you’re there for, sweetheart.”

Maxine lingers in the doorway, between rooms, sniffing the air as it fills with the aroma of onions crackling in the big pan.

“Can I go outside?”

“Come in here, please, Maxine . . . I’m making supper and can’t hear you.”

“I said, can I go outside?”

“Outside? But it’s dark, sweetheart.”

“I know. But I have to find someone.”

“Who?”

“Owl.”

“What owl?”

“The one who lives in the tree hole.”

“In the garden? Who told you that?”

“I need to get an owl feather.”

“An owl feather. Why?”

“For Halloween. I promised Gareth.”

“Did you decide on a Halloween costume? Why don’t you do that instead of wandering around outside? We only have a couple of days if you want me to make your costume.”

“I’m going to be a rabbit.”

“You were a rabbit last year.”

Maxine shrugs. “I guess that means I love rabbits.”

“What about a ghost?” asks Hadley.

“No thanks. I’m a rabbit girl.”

“You don’t want to be something scary? Like a zombie? It is Halloween, after all.”

“What’s a zombie again?”

“A person who won’t die . . . who keeps coming back no matter what.”

Maxine looks at her fingers. “Why is that scary?”

“I suppose . . .” says her mother, dropping the utensil, “because they walk like this . . .”

Maxine laughs to please her mother, who is trying to please her. “That’s not scary,” she says.

“Ooh, how about a ghost rabbit? That’s frightening!”

“Not to me, it’s not.” But then Maxine imagines the glowing outline of a creature not quite there. “Can animals be ghosts, Mom?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Maxine thinks for a moment. “Have you ever met a ghost?”

Hadley’s face changes. Like a mechanical toy, she turns to the wall where photographs hang, suspended over the past. There is one that sits apart from the others.

In the distance, memories circle like birds ready to land⁠—if she’ll let them.

Maxine follows her mother’s eyes. “Who is that again, Mom?

“A friend.”

“Your friend who died?”

“Yes. I told you . . . he was my husband once.”

“Before Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have a baby with him?”

Hadley marvels at how quickly the eyes of pain flash open.

“What was his name?”

“Who?”

“Your husband before Daddy.”

“His name was Max.”

“Like me.”

“You were named after him, actually. It was Daddy’s idea.”

“So, I can’t meet him?”

“No, my darling, he died.”

“Why?”

“He had a rare disease.”

“How did he get it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could Daddy get it, too?”

“Yes . . . but he won’t.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know. He just won’t.”

For Maxine, so many sentences lead to confusion, as though she is arriving in many places at once.

“He died before you were born, Maxine.”