I was at the doorway to give them the agreed ride that morning.

“There are two dark blue cups,” I said.

“The crooked-handle one.”

Her mother handed it back, and Mia put it with the things she wanted to bring.

The handle caught against the bag opening.

She stopped and worked it loose without asking either of us to take over.

“I think that cup has been promoted to first class,” I told her.

“It doesn’t have a ticket.”