I hit the switch on my armrest and rolled the passenger window down four inches.

The cold afternoon air brought the smell of wet pavement and diesel into the front seat.

Lily stopped at the door, her chin level with the gap in the glass.

“My mother told me you were dead,” Lily said.

She said it without anger or fear, the way a child reads the number on a classroom door.

I rubbed my left collarbone with my fingers, staring into her gray eyes.

“Lily,” I said.