Ivy scuffed toward home along the cracked sidewalks. It was weird to think that noticing was a talent. It just seemed natural, like breathing. How could you not notice the way the gold of the afternoon sun made the old houses along the street look stately and dignified instead of old and shabby the way they did on cloudy days? How could you not notice the smell of oil on pavement, or the way the damaged letters in the coffee shop’s sign made it seem to say FAKED GOODS instead of BAKED GOODS?

An elderly couple came out of the coffee shop together. The woman wore pink pedal pushers and the man had on a blue plaid shirt and brown leather shoes. His hands shook as he took his wife’s arm; she wrapped a hand over his and they moved slowly down the sidewalk together, their bodies turned slightly toward each other. If Ivy was making a movie to define one word, she’d film them and call it Love.

She shoved her hands into her dress pockets and smiled to herself. Her boots made a click-scrff sound as they hit the pavement.

• • •

A few blocks from home, she stopped to admire a house she liked. It was old, two stories, painted white, with a long glassed-in porch and a turret going up on one corner. Every time she stopped she imagined how it would be to live there. It seemed like it would be wonderful. Romantic, somehow. And peaceful. The yard had a wrought-iron fence around it and tulips and daffodils blooming everywhere. Wind chimes tinkled, a gazing ball gleamed on an iron stand, a bird flittered at the edge of a birdbath. Some days she’d see a lady in the garden, or on the porch. Today the porch door was ajar—it often was—and Ivy saw a swing, some wicker furniture, a huge blue-and-white vase full of flowers, and—this was new—one of Dad Evers’s chairs.

She yanked her phone out of her pocket and jabbed Speed Dial for the Everses—theirs and Prairie’s were the only numbers programmed in—and waited for someone to pick up. No one did, but that wasn’t surprising. Prairie would be on her way home from school, Mom and Dad Evers were probably busy outside, and Grammy could be anywhere—helping them, or volunteering at the library in town, or playing her banjo so loud she didn’t hear the phone ring.

Ivy left a message: “Hey, it’s me! I’m walking home from school, and I see one of Dad’s chairs on someone’s porch. It looks great there! Really great. Also, I wanted to tell you I’m feeling better. I can’t wait to see you all on Saturday!”

She clicked the phone off, grinning. Here was a case of noticing and doing something about it: lights, camera, action, like Ms. Mackenzie said.