Three mornings.
That was how long Erin held out.
Three mornings of opening her door at first light and finding a small brown box waiting for her on the threshold. Three mornings of warm croissants in waxed paper, and the right coffee with cinnamon, and a small new jar each time for Lio — pear and pumpkin on the second day, carrot and apple on the third — each one labeled in the careful slanting hand of the market stand on the square. Three mornings of no note, no knock, no footstep on the stair that she could catch.
By the third morning she had begun, without quite admitting it to herself, to listen for the not-footsteps.
By the third morning she had begun to set the croissant on the table and think about it before she ate it.
By the third afternoon she was washing the same plate for
