“It’s cold apple juice,” I said, holding the rim so she wouldn’t have to lift her head.

She took three slow pulls through the straw, her throat clicking with each swallow.

“Is that good?” I asked.

“It tastes like the red plastic cups at home,” she whispered.

“We’ll have the red cups back on the kitchen counter soon,” I said, setting the tumbler back beside the peaches.

“I promise you that.”

“Daddy threw the blue ones away,” she said.

“He threw away your cups?”