Helen clapped.

Three soft claps, the kind you give a child at a recital for somebody else’s song.

Then I took the second sheet out of my sweater pocket, the clean typed one I had found in the recycling bin Tuesday night, and did the same to it.

“That one didn’t even have your name crossed out,” Helen said.

“That one never had it on there.”

I reached for my watch band, stopped myself, and put my hand back down on the counter.