Ava was eighteen months and had opinions about the van. She said “bye” about forty times, to me, to the porch, to the maple, to a passing car, working through her material.

Sabrina came back up the steps at the end.

“Thursday,” she said.

“Thursday.”

“And if it’s bad — if the first week’s bad, I might call you at eleven at night.”

“Call me at eleven at night.”