That’s not Mommy’s car key.
The line divided the lamp light.
Sweetheart, give that to me.
No, I found it.
Whose is it.
It’s just a key, baby.
I found it in the driveway. Next to the black car.
What black car.
The one that comes when you’re at work. The man let me wear his hat.
After that the living room was a living room with a stopped smile in it.
Ana’s explanation—the elevator, the coffee, the loneliness, the ending she had promised, the name Eric Holm, the Tuesday of wet hair—stayed behind her teeth. The night did not give her the paragraph. The child was still in the frame. The fob was still in the small hand. The cap was still making Lila look delighted.
Delight is a terrible lighting for a secret.
Diego did not stand up right away.
Standing would have turned the coffee table into a courtroom. He stayed on the sectional with the screwdriver still in his right hand and the gold band on his left and the toy truck on its side like a small animal that had not been finished. He looked at Ana. He looked at the cap. He looked at Lila’s face, which had not yet learned that treasure can be a problem.
He set the screwdriver on the table so he would not hold a tool.
Rain increased on the glass. Mrs. Chen’s television thudded upstairs, a laugh track from a show that had been funny in another decade. The kitchen light was on. A dish sat in the sink from dinner. Ordinary kept trying to remain ordinary. Ordinary is stubborn. Ordinary is not stronger than a luxury fob.
Lila, who could not hold a silence, bounced once on her toes.
“Can I keep the hat?”
Ana made a sound that was not a word.
Diego put his palm out.