I rounded a corner and stopped dead.

At the far end, in the soft glow of a waiting-room light, stood Coraline and the boys.

She was adjusting the gold ribbon around Atticus’s neck, her touch endlessly gentle.

Hugo was sliding a thick dossier into a worn but spotless canvas backpack.

“Mom,” Atticus said, his voice clear and steady, “the tech guy said this trophy’s solid brass.

It weighs a ton.

Hold it, see if it breaks your wrist.” Coraline laughed — a rich, real laugh I had not heard in a decade, a sound that used to fill a damp Queens apartment — and patted Hugo’s shoulder.