“I have some idea,” I said. “Take care of yourself. And if anyone tries to tell you you’re too much or not enough, tell them Claire on Maple Street disagrees.”

She smiled at that. We parted. I stood on the sidewalk a minute longer than necessary, like holding still would anchor the moment. Then I went to get Molly, who came out with a paw bandaged like a little boxing glove and the air of someone who’d been a model patient and expected praise.

At home, life resumed its lovely racket. Jacob called to ask if spaghetti counted as “cooking” if you heat the sauce from a jar (“Yes, chef”); Tyler texted a photo from campus of an orange couch on the curb and asked if it was “worth it for the aesthetic” (“Absolutely not, you are not bringing home street couches”). I told Dr. Martinez I made banana bread and he said he’d forgive me for making him a carb dealer if I brought him a slice. I hung laundry that smelled like falls I had forgotten, and for a few hours, the thrift store moment folded itself into the rest of the day like sugar into flour.