I spent the next morning in the attic with Miles. Dust clung to our sleeves, and the window above the stairs let in a strip of cold light. We found my old school papers in a cardboard box, then my mother's sewing basket, then a stack of photographs bound with a rubber band that cracked when I touched it.
Miles picked up one of the photos. It showed me at twelve, leaning over the front desk with my mother behind me. I had a pencil tucked behind my ear and a serious expression on my face.
"You looked like you were running the place," he said.
"I probably thought I was."
"You were very bossy."
"Someone had to teach you how to fold towels."
"You made me refold all of them."
"You were bad at it."
He laughed. I smiled, then set the photograph aside.
At the back of the box, I found a sma
