I picked up the pineapple magnet and put it in my purse.

On moving day, the pineapple magnet held up a photo of Margaret’s dog, a beagle named Rusty who had been dead six years.

I peeled it off the refrigerator door, and the metal felt cold under my thumb.

Gary stood in the kitchen doorway with his arms crossed.

He hadn’t shaved in three days, and the gray stubble scratched at his jaw when he talked.

“You don’t have to take that,” he said.