Mara arrived shortly after seven with Noah and a bag of things he had left at her house.

He came through the doorway holding a drawing with both hands.

He had worked on it in the car, and one corner had curled against his coat.

“Don’t fold it,” he told his mother.

“I haven’t folded it.”

“You were going to.”

“I was going to hold the bag.”

He considered that distinction and gave her the bag instead.