"You'll come back," Mae said. It was not a question. It was a weather forecast issued by someone who had survived worse than doubt.
"I'll come back," Claire said. She meant it in her bones.
Jack tucked the loose strand of hair behind his ear, failed immediately, and smiled anyway, the smile that had first arrived with a plate of turkey on a closed night. "Route 4's got room for a Plymouth anytime. So does the booth by the heater. So do I, if we're saying true things before you drive."
Claire kissed his cheek, then his mouth, then the corner of his smile. She drove north with the jar of gravy wrapped in a towel on the passenger seat like a passenger with strong opinions and a family history. The Plymouth behaved. The mountains shone. Claire played the radio loud and did not once check a calendar for permission to feel glad.