At three-thirty, Mark went into the kitchen to talk with Eleanor.

I excused myself and went upstairs to the guest bedroom.

Emma was sitting on the edge of the mattress.

The walls were still painted the pale yellow Laura had picked out in high school, and her old wooden bookshelf was still full of her teenage novels.

Emma’s small canvas overnight bag sat open on the quilt.

She was folding a pair of jeans and pressing the creases flat.

“Do you have your heavy sweater packed?” I asked.