"I know."
"I'm doing it anyway."
"I know."
They locked the door. Nia kept her key; she would turn it in at closing like a surrendered name. The truck pulled away toward Oak Hollow. Simone followed in her SUV. Marcus drove the sedan with Amara humming in the back and Nia silent in the front, the crayon drawing flat on her thighs.
Closing took place in a glass-walled office that smelled like carpet cleaner and neutral paint. The Sacramento buyers were kind in a careful way—mid-thirties, tired, excited, trying not to look too happy in front of the people whose loss was their gain. Nia shook their hands. She signed where Simone indicated. She watched Marcus sign. She initialed pages that turned their address into history. When it was done, the escrow officer smiled the professional smile of endings and said congratulations in a tone that could have meant anything.
Outside, in the parking lot, the afternoon sun was hard and bright. Amara wanted ice cream. Simone offered to buy it and then glanced at Nia for permission. Nia nodded. The four of them walked to a shop two doors down and sat at a sticky table while Amara negotiated sprinkles. For twenty minutes they looked like friends. Nia caught their reflection in the window—two women, one man, one child—and thought about how reflections lied by holding still.