“Toast is not eating.

Toast is a rumor.”

Claire laughed, one short sound, and put her hand over her mouth like she had done something wrong.

At one I went down the hall for the coffee can and stopped at the pantry door.

The bat was still behind it where it had hung for twenty years, on two nails, the ash gone dark at the handle where hands had held it.

Frank had it made for his ball team and gave it to me the summer Claire was six.