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“I’ll come back at hometime,” I tell her.

She says nothing.

Her teacher, a woman with kind eyes and the practical shoes of someone who’s been kicked too many times by many children, kneels beside her. “Hi, Lucy. We’re doing story circles today.”

Lucy’s face remains blank.

I crouch awkwardly. “I’ll be back,” I say again, because I don’t know what else to offer.

Her fingers brush Bun’s ear. “Mommy says that.”

I go still.

Then she walks into the classroom without looking back.

I remain crouched in the hallway, a woman waiting for further instructions from the universe.

None arrive.

By the time I get back into the rental car, my hands are shaking. I grip the steering wheel until they stop. Then I drive to the town where Maggie lived.

I forcibly correct the thought.

Lives.

Present tense matters.

Everwood is bigger than Redwood Run, but less memorable. More strip malls, more traffic, fewer trees pressing close to the road. Maggie’s house sits in a narrow residential street of beige siding and chain link fences. The kind of place that looks temporary even if people stay for decades.

Tom’s truck is in the driveway.

So’s Mick’s sedan.

I park at the curb and sit gathering myself into something presentable.

I haven’t slept. My hair is twisted into a knot that barely qualifies as intentional. There's cereal dust on my sleeve. In the rearview mirror my eyes look like I've been personally victimized by time.

Fine.

Let that be Tom’s problem.

He answers after the third knock.

Tom White isn't what I would've chosen for Maggie, which sounds cruel, but is also true.

He's tall, broad, handsome in a blunt way, with sandy hair and eyes that seem pale until they sharpen. I used to think he looked harmless. A little immature, maybe. Too fond of being liked.

Today he looks wrecked, unshaven, red eyed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

For half a second, guilt softens me.

Then he opens his mouth. “You’re finally here.”

I blink. “Good morning to you too.”

His jaw flexes. “Sorry. I’m not…” He drags a hand through his hair. “I’m not myself.”

Apparently no one is.