Chapter 9

On Tuesday the board read 1.

The photographs had happened on the last day of July.

The kitchen was clean and empty for the listing, and the house still hadn't sold.

Kit had gone back to the transit center between shifts, and because she still carried my letter in her back pocket, I could follow.

Bernice was under the orange overhang, wearing the yellow jacket even though the sky was a white lid.

Kit sat beside her and didn't waste time on weather.

"She never claimed the fare made up for missing my solo, did she?"

"No," Bernice said. "She never said that to me."

"Then what did she say?"

"She said she was short for the bus and missed you. She said she lied to you because the truth felt worse than being blamed."

Kit looked at the timetable board.

"I still don't forgive the lie."

"Then don't," Bernice said. "I didn't ask you to."

A man swiped his pass and the machine beeped twice.

The sound made me flinch behind the window.

I had wanted Bernice to carry my apology, and she had refused to carry anything that wasn't hers.

That was exactly right, and it burned.

Back in the waiting hall, Halene spread a new signal slip on the counter.

"You said you had a request."

"I do now."

"And the memory?"

I wrote it in the box: The day I taught Kit to ride.

Halene read it once.

"Once you send it, the smell is not the only thing you lose."

"I know."

Halene fed the slip into the machine under the viewing window.

Below, Kit had set the letter on the counter and pulled a roll of packing tape from the drawer.

She cut a strip and reached for the nearest box.

Then the kitchen changed in the smallest way.

The smell of orange peel came off the counter where the letter lay.

Not fresh oranges.

The dried curl of peel I used to keep in the utensil drawer.

Kit stopped.

She looked at the tape in her hand, then at the envelope.

She set the tape down and picked up the letter.

Holding it with both hands, she stood still for a full breath.

Then she put it in her back pocket.

She didn't put it in the box.

I tried to find the afternoon I taught Kit to ride, and there was nothing where it had been.

Kit pocketed the letter, and my hand came back holding nothing.