On Sunday evening I sat on the living room floor while Lily sorted her treasures beside me, a smooth stone, a plastic bracelet, two coins, a purple bead, the music box that would not get the best spot in the room, and I had the birthday photograph in my hand, the one I had taken after the candles were gone, when I still thought I was keeping evidence of what had failed to arrive.

Where does the picture go, she asked.

On the refrigerator, I said.

Why.

So we can keep it.

But nobody came, she said, looking at it, and I said, I know, and she touched the edge of the picture and began, out loud, to correct it.

Danny came yesterday, she said.

Yes.