Abigail’s mouth moved, the smallest pull at the corner.

I kept talking.

I told her about the apartment I had found near the reserve station, the one with the narrow kitchen and the radiator that knocked twice every morning.

“The landlord says it’s a ghost with good manners,” I said.

“I told him I’ve lived with worse.”

Her mouth twitched again.

I chose to call it a smile.

I told her the neighbor’s dog was a fat beagle named Otis who barked at bicycles and nothing else.