Terminal Four
Nora was the one who put her hand on her mother’s arm in Terminal 4 before anybody said anything, and she is still doing that.
She is eight and she is the person in this house who knows, within about a second, when something is wrong, and who does not ask about it, and who will instead go and stand somewhere near you.
She did not call me anything for seven months.
Not Marcus.
Not Dad.
Nothing.
She would get my attention by coming and standing beside me, or by putting something in my hand, or by saying “hey” — and she did it so smoothly that it was six weeks before I noticed and another four before I mentioned it to anybody.
Evelyn had noticed in the second week.
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