She opens the fridge and uncorks a bottle of white wine. Never too early, right? She pulls down a stemless glass from the open shelf. She completely gutted the kitchen before they moved in, and now it’s minimal, clean, and organized. It looks out onto the pool and manicured scrap of lawn. Paul had argued the yard was too small, but she’d disagreed. Neither of them wanted to spend their Saturdays mowing or obsessing over the lawn. In hindsight, she’s glad she stuck to her guns. She sips the crisp drink and walks back through the house and pauses outside the living room.

A row of moving boxes takes up the entire back corner. She lowers her wine to the hall table and approaches the stack. She trails a finger over the cursive Sharpie: Paul study. Paul bedroom. Paul garage. Paul office.

Though a few of Paul’s personal items are scattered around the house (some of them now missing), most of his items are here. Six months have already passed since the accident. Why haven’t I unpacked them yet? Though they are a constant reminder of loss, she can’t make herself slice open the tops and dig into the remainders of his life. She doesn’t want to hold each personal memento in her hand and decide how it will be handled. It’s too much. So she pretends they don’t exist.

She’s so good at pretending.

Crystal walks past the spiral staircase and heads out back. She sits at the edge of their rectangular saltwater pool, next to her favorite azalea bush, removes her sandals, and dangles her feet into the cool water. She needs to work, but it’s so rare she’s alone in the house. She leans back and cocks her face to the sky for the second time today. A steady breeze lightens the summer heat.

Her phone buzzes at her hip: Pam.

“Hey, what’s up?” she asks. “Everything okay?”

“Savi fell.”

She sits up straighter. “What do you mean? Is she okay?’

“She fell off the monkey bars. She was trying to skip a rung, and her hand slipped.”

Crystal immediately thinks of Savi’s cello lessons—more specifically, her wrist and fingers. “Where are you guys?” Pam tells her which park. Crystal rushes inside, grabs her keys, and laces up her tennis shoes.

She drives the short distance to Butterfield Park, heart hammering. Crystal frantically searches the area, shielding her eyes from the sun. She charges toward the playground.

“Crystal!”

She pivots. Pam waves one frantic hand from the far park bench, her plump wrist outfitted in her brand-new Apple watch. She ignores Pam and skids to a stop near Savi’s feet. Her daughter sniffles and cradles her elbow. Her face is pasty white, her brown ponytail unruly and matted. Her dress is lightly smeared with dirt.

“Hey, sweetie. Can I see?”