She had last seen it when it belonged to a six-year-old.

She recognized what he was carrying.

Maya Sterling dropped a full glass of champagne on the grass and did not hear it land.

“Bibi?” she said.

The rabbit was grey and had one ear and had been repaired, at some point in the intervening thirty-one years, by somebody who was not very good at sewing, with thread that was very slightly the wrong color.

He had kept it through two countries and four houses and an entire life.