On the drive home, she fell asleep in the passenger seat, her hands folded over her bag.

I glanced at her at a red light and felt the sudden urge to cry.

Not because she’d vanished, and not because someone had taken years from us, but because she was there.

She was breathing softly.

She would wake when we reached her apartment and complain that the road had too many potholes.

When we arrived, she opened her eyes and said exactly that.

I laughed so hard I had to wipe tears from my face.