Later, later she will howl. She’ll sob into her pillow so that no one hears. She’ll take some comfort in Walter’s arms. For now, she folds the letter carefully and slips it back into its envelope. Ruthie spills a glass of milk, and Annelise swoops in with a cloth. “There,” she says, and kisses Ruthie on the head, which smells a little sour, like sweat and grass and cheese. “Tonight is bath night,” she says.

She will never see her mother again.

“Can I stay home with you today, Mama?” Ruthie asks, as she does every day.

Yes. “No, you have to go back to school. But you’ll be home again before you know it.”

“I’m all done eating.” Ruthie pushes herself away from the table, slides down from her chair. Her plate is still half full. No matter. Sometimes Annelise eats Ruthie’s half-finished lunch for her own. Not today. “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Ruthie says.

Annelise raises her eyebrows, nods.

“I learned how to hop today.”

“Wonderful. Show me.”

How strange, the convergences, darkness roaring into ordinary life.

Ruthie raises her right leg, bent at the knee, steadies herself. She begins with a tentative little jump, wobbles, bites her lip in concentration, quickly gains confidence. She hops around the kitchen.

Her mother is gone. Much later she will understand: murdered.

“Are you watching?” Ruthie is hopping in place now, panting a little.

“You’re just like a bunny,” Annelise says.

“Hop! Hop!” Ruthie hops to the edge of the kitchen and out into the hallway, thudding through the small apartment. “I’m in the bathroom now!” she calls.

The letter throbs in her pocket.

“Mama? I’m in the bathroom!”

“All right, Ruthie.”

“I’m brushing my hair!”

“Good girl,” she calls, clearing Ruthie’s plate, her empty glass.

She will never see her mother again.

Ruthie narrates the details of her every move, feels the pressing need to tell her mother everything; in Annelise’s reflection, Ruthie knows she exists. Annelise understands the impulse. “Good girl,” she calls again.

She makes her way through the small apartment, toward the sound of her daughter’s voice. She stands still outside the bathroom, arms outstretched, palms against opposite walls like a tree planted in the middle of the hallway. The soft fabric of her skirt skims her legs just below her knees. The dim hallway, the smell of the soup that she made this morning. Ruthie’s high voice like a bird.

Annelise closes her eyes, heart pounding, blood rushing. Bones and breath.

She is mute with sorrow and filled with tenderness for this undeserving world.