I'm Jennifer A. Cole.

The phone rang before she could put the sketchbook away. Unknown number. Maya stared at it until it stopped. Then it started again. She answered. "Hello?"

No office noise this time. No professional voice. Just breathing.

"Talia?"

A rough little laugh came through. "You always sound mad."

Maya sat down on the arm of the couch because her knees had gone unreliable. "I've called you."

"I know."

"Talia."

"I know, Maya."

"Do you understand what's happening tomorrow?"

Talia didn't answer. "Does Claire know I'm picking her up?"

"She knows."

"What did you tell her?"

"That you're her aunt."

Maya waited for more. There was no more.

"She acts tough," Talia said, when she finally spoke again. "Like she don't care. Like everybody else is stupid for caring. Don't push her when she gets like that. She hates being called baby. Or princess. She likes baseball. Mets, not Yankees. She'll drink orange soda until she makes herself sick if you let her. She says she hates oatmeal, but she'll eat it if you put brown sugar in it. Not a lot, or she'll say it's nasty. Just some."

Maya listened, afraid that if she moved too much, Talia would stop.

"She gets nightmares," Talia said. "She'll say she doesn't. She wakes up mean. Like real mean. Don't yell back. Don't crowd her either. She don't like that. And don't let her fool you. She likes when somebody sits nearby. Not touching her. Just there."

Maya's throat tightened. "Talia," she said quietly. "Are you safe?"

The breathing stopped. "I gotta go."

"Wait."

"Just take care of her, okay?"

"I will."

"No, like..." Talia's voice cracked. "Don't give her back to nobody just because she hard to love some days."

The call ended before Maya knew if Talia heard her say it back.

Do not give her back.

"Claire Bennett," Vivian said, "if your mouth is going to be in my macaroni, then your whole body better be at that sink washing your hands first."

Claire froze with the spoon halfway to her mouth. "I did wash them."

"You touched the back door, the railing, your phone, and that dog next door who looks like he pays taxes late."

Claire's mouth twitched. "He don't look like that."

"He absolutely looks like that. Now wash."

Claire looked at Maya for help. Maya lifted both hands. "I don't argue with women holding wooden spoons."

Claire rolled her eyes, but she went to the sink.

That was new. Not the eye roll. The eye roll had been there from the beginning, sharp and ready and suspicious of joy. The new part was the way Claire moved through Vivian's kitchen like she already knew where the dish towels were. Like she knew which cabinet stuck. Like she belonged enough to be corrected.

Eleven looked different on her. Not softer exactly. Claire was not soft. But she had loosened. There were spaces now where something besides survival could get in.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. Vivian pointed at it with the wooden spoon. "No phones at my table."

"We're not at the table yet."

"Do not bring a lawyer spirit into my kitchen."

Claire glanced at the screen and smiled before she could hide it. "She wants to know if I can come over next Saturday," Claire said, aiming the question at the sink instead of at Maya.

Maya opened her mouth.

Vivian got there first. "After you dry your hands."

"I'm asking Maya."

"And I am protecting my floors from your wet fingerprints. Dry."

Claire dried her hands with theatrical suffering. Maya leaned against the counter. "We can talk about Saturday after dinner."

"That means maybe."

"It means after dinner."

"That means maybe with extra steps."

Nat nodded solemnly from the doorway. "She's got you there."

"Do not encourage my child," Maya said.

The kitchen went quiet for half a breath.

My child.

Maya heard it only after it left her mouth. So did everyone else, because everyone in that kitchen had the nerve to possess ears.

Claire looked down at the dish towel. Nobody said a word.

The first sign that the house had stopped belonging to any one person was the shoes.

Maya Bennett used to know every pair by sight. Claire's sneakers by the bench, one lace always trapped under the sole. Adrian's work boots near the garage door, because even half-asleep, even covered in grease, he still believed in putting things where they belonged. Her own flats tucked beside the mat, out of the way, sensible, unremarkable.

Now the front entry looked like somebody had hosted a yard sale and forgotten to price the merchandise.

Lauren's white sneakers sat with the backs mashed down. Nat's construction boots were by the radiator, dusted gray at the toes. Mateo's loafers stood beside them like they had taken a wrong turn into a less expensive life and were trying to be polite about it. Vivian's church shoes sat neatly by the door, though Vivian herself had walked straight into the kitchen wearing slippers Maya was almost certain had never been in this house before.

Somewhere beneath all of that, Maya's black sandal had disappeared. Again.

"Claire!" Maya called.

"What?"

"Have you seen my sandal?"

"Which one?"

"The black one."

"That does not narrow it down."

"I live here," Claire said, as if that explained bare feet, lost shoes, and every other crime committed before breakfast.

Maya heard it. She always heard it, even now.

I live here.

Claire said it carelessly these days. Like a fact. Like the walls already knew. Maya never answered too quickly when she said it. She had learned that with Claire. Some things got shy if adults stared at them too long.

The house had become like that. Nothing stayed in one lane. A question about a sandal turned into a trial, a breakfast, a property dispute, and someone insulting Adrian's housekeeping. The front door opened more than it stayed closed. Somebody was always passing through, carrying something, forgetting something, making coffee, measuring a wall, borrowing tape, eating Vivian's leftovers, leaving with a container they swore they would return.

A year and a half earlier, Maya would have called it too much.

Now she called it Sunday.