At eleven o’clock, Kevin took Brooklyn down the hall to the playroom on the second floor to look for a plastic box of crayons.

I sat alone on the edge of the mattress with my hands flat on my thighs while the quiet settled over the tiny room.

My cell phone buzzed twice on the glass coffee table by my elbow.

The screen glowed bright blue with my mother’s name.

I picked it up with my right hand, expecting a quick question about Rosalie’s lab work or visiting hours.

The text read: Bring dessert for your sister’s celebration, and don’t be completely unhelpful.