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“The worst.”

She laughed. “I miss diner coffee.”

“The kind that tastes burned even when it’s fresh.”

“Yes.” She pointed the fruit at me. “You understand.”

“I do.”

Something eased between us.

“Music,” I said after a moment.

Her expression changed.

“Yeah.”

“Certain songs.”

“Sometimes I remember pieces.”

“Same.”

“But not enough.”

I looked down.

“That’s the worst part.”

Memory could fade without permission. Apparently it could take things from you without bothering to announce when they were gone.

Ryleigh grew quiet.

After a while I asked, “Do you miss it?”

“Earth?”

I nodded.

“Parts.”

“That sounds careful.”

“It is.”

Her hand moved automatically over her stomach when the baby shifted. I saw the movement beneath her clothing before she rubbed the spot with one palm.

“I miss people,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“I miss stupid things.”

“Also yeah.”

“I miss knowing what everything was without having to ask what it’s called or whether I’m using it wrong.”

I laughed softly. “That part never really stops.”