Aaliyah's phone buzzed on top of the dryer. A message from the care facility's nurse: Ruth had a good morning. Asked for the boy. Ate oatmeal. Called Evelyn by name once.
Aaliyah typed back thanks and set the phone down. She picked up one of Elias's outgrown shirts and held it for a moment against her chest, the way she sometimes still held the fact of her mother—close, complicated, unfinished.
Marcus ended his call and came to the laundry room doorway. He did not fill it the way he had on the day of the cracking. He waited to be invited by her glance, and when she gave it he stepped in and leaned against the cabinets.
"Facility says she had a good morning," Aaliyah said.
"Want to go by after dinner? Or wait for Sunday?"
"After dinner," she said. "Elias has a drawing he wants to give her. A fox that remembers everything. He's been working on it all week."