Twenty Seven
Her eyes light. “Really?”
“Yes, let's pretend.” I keep my tone light. “Practice.”
She takes it seriously anyway, the way she always does. She folds two shirts and a pair of leggings into her backpack, tucks in her softest socks, her toothbrush, then digs under the pillow for Monsieur Bear, who is bald in a few patches and missing one eye. She stops, casting me a worried look. “Books?”
“One,” I say. “We have to carry everything ourselves, so we can't take anything too heavy. Choose the one you want most.”
She agonizes over it and picks the book about the cat that travels the world, because she likes the drawing of Paris and the picture of the cat on a hotel bed. She slides it into the front pocket and zips everything closed. “Time me,” she says, and I do. We practice again
