Page 11 of My Broken Biker

"No rocks," I say.

"What about one."

"One rock," I say.

She selects the flat grey stone with the white stripe through it that she found at the park in June, smooth on one side from being in her pocket every day since. She puts it in the front zipper pocket of her bag where she can reach it.

Gerald goes in last, face up, because that's how Gerald travels.

She has been talking for the full forty-five minutes.

I now know that Biscuit, Maisie's dog, once ate an entire sock, not like a bite, the whole thing went in, and they had to go to the vet and there are pictures.

I know that Maisie's bedroom ceiling has glow stars but Maisie hasn't rearranged them to spell her name yet because it's a lot of them. I know there is an ongoing dispute in Angela's class about whether sharks are technically fish.

"Mrs. Petrow says they're kind of fish, but a different category so both sides are actually right depending on how you're defining fish," Angela says, shouldering her bag, and I cannot tell if this came from Mrs. Petrow or the encyclopedia or somewhere else, but it is accurate.

In the car she doesn't stop. The bag is in her lap and she holds it with both hands and looks out the window at the houses going past and talks about the shark debate, which leads to a discussion of whether sharks dream, which leads to Biscuit again, which leads to a question about whether dogs dream, which she answers herself before I can, which leads to something Priya said about her watermelon lunchbox.

"It opens at the top," she says. "Like a real watermelon would if you cut it. Maisie has a narwhal one but Priya's is better I think. Don't tell Maisie."

"I won't tell Maisie," I say.

"Do narwhals dream, do you think?"

"I genuinely don't know," I say.

She considers this. "Probably," she decides. "They have big brains. Big-brained things dream. That's what the book said. Not the dinosaur one, the other one."

We pull up to Deb's. I've barely got the car stopped when Angela sees Maisie at the front window, and she makes a sound that is pure and uncomplicated excitement, and she's out of the car before I've got my door open, bag swinging against her leg as she runs up the path.

Deb opens the door before Angela reaches it.

Maisie is right there, and before either of them says a proper word they're both already talking and Biscuit comes from somewhere down the hall and arrives at the door wagging his whole back end, and Angela drops to her knees on the doorstep without hesitation and puts both hands on the dog's face and forgets everything else exists.

Deb steps past both girls and the bag on the step to get to the porch.

"We've been on countdown since this afternoon," she says.

"She packed for forty-five minutes," I say. "She brought one negotiated rock."

Deb smiles. She's in the old soft cardigan she wears when she's not going anywhere, and the house behind her smells like something baked earlier.

She looks at me for a moment with the specific attention of someone who actually knows you. "You sure you're all right?" she says.

Not pushing, just checking.

"Tired," I say. "It's been a full week."

She nods, easy, and doesn't press it. "No need to be early tomorrow," she says. "Sleep in."

Angela gets to her feet, Biscuit is still circling her.

She turns and gives me a goodbye wave, already mostly turned back toward Maisie, and says "bye Mommy love you bye" in one fast string, and she's through the door and I hear her voice already going, asking Maisie something about the glow stars, and Maisie answering, and both of them at once after that.

I stand on the path for a moment.

The sounds from inside go further in, and then the door closes, and the porch is just a porch.