It was a net.

Franny had spent thirty-one years quietly weaving a net under a whole street — under Yusuf and Deja and Mr.

Alvarez and Lottie and dozens more — a net made of tea and mended coats and no in an account book and a green chair where you could sit and be, for an hour, held.

And a net does not survive the person who wove it unless someone takes up the shuttle.

I was not Franny.