We baked oatmeal cookies together because Autumn had once mentioned she liked cinnamon.

Then he worried the gift might make her uncomfortable and tried to pack only three.

“Bring the whole box,” I said.

“People are allowed to enjoy cookies without it becoming a ceremony.”

Elena greeted us at the door with a tired smile.

The Millers’ home was neat and bright, with low shelves, family photos and a clear path through the living room.

Autumn sat at a table near the window, her wrist supported by a removable brace.