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The internet suggests crafts, baking, nature walks, library story time, and “open communication.”

I close the browser.

Nature walk it is.

“Get your coat and boots on,” I say, trying to sound decisive.

Lucy looks up from where she's lying on the rug beside her rabbit. “Why?”

“Because we’re going into town.”

“No.”

“Compelling counterpoint. However, we need fresh air.”

Her whole body tightens. “I don’t want air.”

“Everyone wants air. It’s one of our universal needs.”

“No.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Lucy, sweetheart, we cannot spend the entire day indoors, staring at the walls. It’s not helping.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m not a sweetheart.”

“All right, noted. Lucy of the firm boundaries, please get your coat and boots.”

Finally she gets up.

I almost cheer, but I've learned not to startle the wildlife.

Ten minutes later, we’re both dressed for the outdoors. Lucy’s coat is zipped up to her chin, and her boots are on the wrong feet. But I brace myself and don’t interfere, deciding that isn't the hill I’m going to die on. She clutches her rabbit. I carry a backpack containing snacks, tissues, water, gloves, a small first aid kit, a hairbrush. Nevertheless, I lead her outside harboring the vague fear that I've forgotten something essential.

The walk into town should be peaceful, I tell myself.

Redwood Run in daylight has the nerve to be beautiful.

Fog hangs in the trees, softening the edges of everything. Moss grows over stone walls and up the sides of old buildings like the town is being patiently reclaimed by nature. Main Street curves gently between antique shops, the post office, a hardware store with a faded red awning, and the quilt shop I remember Maggie hating because the snooty owner once told her that her ripped jeans were “a poor life choice.”

The café windows glow warmly against the gray morning. The whole place looks like it was designed by someone with an aggressive commitment to charm.

I hate how much it’s working.

Lucy walks beside me, silent. Her small hand isn't in mine. It’s tucked around Bun, holding him close to her chest like a shield.

“Do you remember this street?” I ask, then immediately regret it.

She’s only five. Of course, she might not.

“A little,” she says.

Progress. Possibly.

“Your mom used to steal cinnamon rolls from that café when we were teenagers.”

Lucy looks up. “Steal?”

“Borrow without repayment,” I explain creatively.