Beside the monitor stood a plastic astronaut, two inches tall, with a helmet painted silver.

Lucy’s.

She had three of them and hid them everywhere.

Once in the butter dish.

Once in the toe of my left shoe, which I found at seven in the morning in a hotel in Columbus.

I picked up the mug and felt the bump of a thumbprint at the base of the handle, where Sophie had pressed too hard and left a little of herself in the clay.

“Should I wrap that?” Nina had come back with a sheet of bubble wrap folded under one arm.