I wake to a smell I know—tea, toast, and the faint spice of dried thyme warming on the stove. For a moment I don’t remember where I am. Then the memory sets: the porch, Grams’s arms around us, the way Bella’s breathing finally softened. My eyes are gritty and my mouth is dry. When I sit, the small muscles at the back of my neck complain about the last week and everything it asked of them.
Bella is still asleep, a hand tucked under her cheek and the quilt pulled to her chin. I pull my sweater on, slide my feet into my shoes, and step into the hall. The house croaks a few old-house sounds and then quiets like it, too, is listening.
Grams looks up when I reach the kitchen. She has a mug of tea for herself and slides a second mug—a simple one with a blue chip on the rim—toward me.
“Water fi
