"She did."
"Is that all right?"
Nia stacked chairs. "It's her story too. She lived inside it. Someday she'll ask better questions. We'll answer them. We already practiced in Dr. Coles's office."
Marcus tied the trash bag. "I keep waiting for a finish line. Some day where you say you're over it."
Nia looked at him across the small yard—the fence still needing paint, the tree producing beyond reason, the pale blue house holding their voices without echo now that furniture and rugs had softened it. "There may not be a finish line," she said. "There may be a practice. I'd rather have a practice with you than a finish line with someone else."
He nodded, throat working. "Then we practice."