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“Not that one.”

“I’m not staying,” Ruth says. “I came to see you were in one piece.”

“Wait here.”

“I’ve been told to wait by better than you.”

“Two minutes.”

Then Tova sees the hoodie still over the dining chair, and her fingers close around the sleeve.

“You left it.”

“Still on the chair,” Colt says.

“I thought you’d move it after.”

“I considered it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.”

She leaves it where it is and starts upstairs with the suitcase, one step at a time. Halfway up, she turns.

“Did anyone go in my room?”

“Only the squirrels,” Colt says.

“We don’t have squirrels inside.”

“That confidence is why they win.”

She runs the rest of the way, and comes back down with three paper bags.

“These aren’t all for you,” she tells him.

“Didn’t think they were.”

“This one is for Gabi.” She puts a bag on the island and holds out the next. “And this one is yours.”

Ruth takes it and does not open it.

“I’ll open it at home.”

“Why?”

“Because if I open it here, your mother will watch my face.”

“I know,” Tova says.

Colt examines the ceiling.

Ruth looks at the bag, and then at the child who has not moved, and opens it.

It is a letter opener. Worn wooden handle, brass down the blade, the sort of thing sold by a man with a table rather than a shop.

Ruth turns it over once.