LOGINMiaGone.I'm alone in the garden. My hands are still in the dirt. I can feel it under my nails, gritty and warm, can feel the sun on the back of my neck burning, and there's that smell—dry earth and dying roses and heat.I should get up. Should go inside. Wash my hands. The thought drifts through without landing anywhere.The light is changing. The brightness is fading, bleeding out at the edges. The roses lose their color first, turning gray, then the grass, then everything. Like watching a photograph develop in reverse. The world going pale. Going transparent.Wet.That's the first thing. Wet.My face is wet and I don't know why and I can't open my eyes yet. My mouth tastes strange. I try to swallow and my throat is dry. Where am I?I blink. Nothing happens. Try again. This time my lids separate slightly. My ceiling.The water stain in the corner. That crack. I've looked at that crack a thousand times.Home.I wipe my face. The blanket slides off me as I sit up. Kyle's at the other
MiaI'm kneeling in the garden now, though I don't remember deciding to kneel. One moment I was standing at the edge looking at the too-long grass, and the next my knees are pressing into the earth.The dirt under my fingernails. I don't notice it happening. I think about how I'll have to scrub them later with the nail brush, the one with the wooden handle that sits by the kitchen sink.My hands know what to do—wrap around the stem as close to the base as possible, feel for the resistance, pull straight up or dig deeper if it won't come. This is muscle memory from years of helping Mom in this garden.The dandelions come up with their long thick taproots, the kind that go down forever, searching for water in the drought. Sometimes they break off halfway and I can feel the snap in my fingers, that small vegetable violence.The crabgrass is harder—those shallow spreading roots that seem to go on forever, each clump revealing more, like pulling on a string and finding it attached to a wh
Mia I pull out another photo. This one is recent. Three weeks ago.My fingers catch on the glossy edge and for a second it sticks to the one beneath it, that static cling photos get when they've been stacked too long in a box. I have to peel them apart carefully.Madison in her school play. She's dressed as a tree. The costume is homemade—I can see the places where I rushed, where the hot glue strings show white against the brown poster board we wrapped around her middle for the trunk. Brown tights on her legs, the kind that bag a little at the knees because I bought them a size too big so she could wear them again.In the photo she's on stage, caught mid-performance under those harsh auditorium lights that wash out everyone's faces. She's standing perfectly still.She's not moving. Just being trees."She took it very seriously," I say.My voice sounds strange in my own ears. Distant. Like I'm hearing myself speak from the other end of a tunnel."Practiced standing still for days. S
Mia's POV"These are—" I open the box, and the cardboard edges are soft from years of handling, the corners worn down to a lighter brown. "These are things.""Things?""Moments." I lift the lid slowly, and inside there's chaos—photos stacked unevenly, some face-up, some face-down, ticket stubs from the aquarium, a dried flower from Madison's first school play pressed between two pictures, a tiny hospital bracelet. "Weird moments. Things that happened that I took pictures of because they were—" I search for the word, my fingers hovering over the pile. "Because they were them."I pull out the first photo, and I have to smile before I even hand it over. The edges are slightly sticky from where Alexander once got peanut butter on it."That's Alexander at two and a half." I pass it to Kyle. "He decided he was a dog."The photo shows Alexander on all fours on our old kitchen floor—the one with the yellow linoleum that came with the apartment. He's face-first in Gas's metal bowl, his cheeks
Mia's POVI sigh.Kyle is still standing there. Six feet away in the flickering alley light. His jacket around my shoulders. The fabric still warm from his body."Come upstairs," I say.He blinks. "What?""Come upstairs. See the kids. Then go home." I pull the jacket tighter. "I'm too tired to do this dance in an alley at eleven at night.""Mia—""I'm not asking you to stay. I'm just—" I stop. Start again. "They'll want to know you were here. Alexander will ask tomorrow if you came by. He always asks."Kyle's throat works. "Okay."We go back inside. The stairwell smells like someone's cooking—garlic and something fried. The fluorescent lights buzz. One flickers on the third floor landing.My keys jangle when I unlock the door. Too loud in the quiet hallway.Gas lifts her head when we come in. Sees Kyle. Her tail thumps once against the floor. Then she settles back down.The apartment is dim. Just the small lamp in the living room. The one I always leave on. The shade is crooked. Has b
Mia's POV"Alexander." My voice is sharper now. "What have I told you about watching grown-up shows?""I don't watch grown-up shows!""Then where did you learn about ex-boyfriends and current boyfriends and awkward social dynamics?""I don't know! From existing! From having ears! From Mrs. Rodriguez and also from the elevator—""Alexander!" I'm trying not to smile but also genuinely alarmed. "You're five. You shouldn't know these things.""Well I do know them! And I'm just trying to help you not be awkward!""Okay!" I stand up. "That's enought. And you..." I point at him. "Less eavesdropping. Less elevator gossip. Less... less learning about adult relationships from our seventy-year-old neighbor.""She's sixty-eight," he mumbles."Alexander.""Okay, okay. Sorry." But he doesn't look sorry. He looks pleased with himself for knowing things, for being observant, for understanding the world in ways that make me both proud and







