In the car, Marcus said, "I feel peeled."
Nia said, "Good." Then, softer, "Me too."
Week two brought paint. They painted Amara's room on a Saturday, all three of them in old clothes, yellow going onto the walls in imperfect rolls. Amara painted a stripe that was more lightning bolt than line. Marcus got yellow in his beard. Nia laughed for the first time in a way that didn't hurt afterward. They ordered Thai food and ate on a picnic blanket in the living room because the dining table was still buried under mail. Amara fell asleep between them during a cartoon about animals who built a ship. Marcus carried her to bed. When he came back, Nia was standing at the sink looking out at the fence.
"I drove by the old house today," she admitted. "After my onboarding call. The Sacramento family had a bounce house in the yard."
Marcus stood beside her. "Are you okay?"
"No. And yes. It looked like a house that belonged to people who hadn't yet learned our ghosts. I hated them for ten minutes. Then I remembered we signed. Then I came home and saw yellow on my hands and decided hate was too expensive."