Two weeks later, the morning was a glass of cold water—clear, bracing, clean. I was on the kitchen floor with Molly’s reset bandage, her head in my lap, when someone knocked. Three knocks, confident, like a person who expects to be let in. I wiped my hands on a dish towel and opened the door with my “neighbor smile” ready.

“Hello?” I said, and then, like a cartoon thought bubble popping above my head, “Savannah?”

If you’ve never seen a person become their inside voice, I recommend it. The hoodie was gone, replaced by a cream pantsuit that looked like it had been sewn for her on a Tuesday by someone named Dominique. Her hair—now in glossy waves—caught the light like it had been told secrets. The green of her eyes was more green, somehow, framed by lashes that made you want to forgive things. Ethan’s blazer had elbow patches, and I am only human.

“Can I come in?” she asked, and when I stepped back, she crossed the threshold with the strange, careful confidence of someone who is trying on a new life and is afraid she might trip the hem. She carried a gold-wrapped box with a bow so elaborate it looked like you should name it.