“It’s beautiful,” I said, touching the end drooping from her shoulder.

She smiled, taking my hand into hers. Surprisingly, her hands were warmer than mine. She rubbed my hand with hers, and for a moment I felt as though I had met her before.

“You’re very nice to stop and say so,” she said. “I’m from far away. My son is pulling the car around, and we’re going to comfort a family whose child died.”

I was saddened by her then, knowing she was senile. The car pulled up and a young man got out and came over to us. He had dark hair and looked Native. He smiled and said hello, then took the woman by the arm and helped her to the car.

“Take care,” I said.

I waited for the young man to help her into the passenger’s seat, where she strapped on her seat belt. She turned and looked back at me as they pulled away.

I HAD THE HOUSE FULLY PREPARED for Wyatt to arrive: Ray-Ray’s bedroom was clean, and the fishing gear was ready in the garage. On the back deck, Ernest appeared confused, his eyes dark and complicated. We had never fostered before, and I wondered if he was nervous. Wyatt was twelve, it occurred to me suddenly, a few years younger than Ray-Ray had been when he died. I hadn’t realized until I saw Ernest sitting on the back deck, looking so tense. He was rubbing his brow with his hand, closing his eyes every few seconds and then opening them and taking in a deep breath.

I stood looking out at the water, which was calm for a day in September. “Everything’s all set for Wyatt,” I told him.

He looked up at me, and I wondered whether he even remembered.

“Wyatt?” he said.

“He’ll be here in a few hours.”

“What’s his name?” he said, looking away and then back at me.

I sat next to him and touched his arm. “The foster boy’s name is Wyatt. He’ll be staying with us a few days. Bernice said it will likely be until the court hearing on Friday.”

He cleared his throat and nodded. “Oh.”

“We’re a temporary placement for him.”

“I got it,” he said.

We sat quietly for a few minutes, looking out over the sloping ground to the trees and water. “I have a good feeling,” I said, maybe more to myself than to Ernest. “We’re the only Cherokee family available for him right now. It’s us or the shelter.”

I thought of Ernest before his mind started to decline, the way he carried on conversations, always laughter about something. I wondered why he didn’t, or couldn’t, laugh anymore. Was nothing funny? No memory, thought, or quick-witted joke on TV ever made him laugh anymore.

After a moment I went back inside to the kitchen table and called Irene. “I’m hesitant about the foster boy and Ernest,” I told my sister. “The Alzheimer’s feels worse every day. I don’t know. I don’t want him to get too confused in front of Wyatt. And I don’t want to deal with the stress if Wyatt gets in trouble at school this week. It’s stressful for a foster child to stay in a temporary placement.”

“Stop worrying,” Irene said.

I sat quietly looking out the window. My notebook was on the table where I had left it. I picked it up and opened it. I wrote:

If I could make the bonfire

and then . . .

If you only

But nothing else came. I felt my thoughts were interrupted, blocked. I had a deep longing to express something, but I couldn’t place what it was.

WYATT ARRIVED AROUND SIX in the evening by way of Bernice. They stood inside the front door, and Bernice introduced us. “Wyatt,” she said, “this is Maria. She’s retired. She used to work with me in the office.”

Wyatt was all smiles, wearing a newsboy cap and baggy jeans. He blushed a little, removing his cap and shaking my hand.

“Very nice to meet you,” I said.

“We’ve got everything in his bag,” Bernice said. “The hearing’s on Friday at one thirty. We’ll meet in the courthouse lobby.”

She gave Wyatt a small hug before leaving. He wasn’t resistant to the hug, nor embarrassed. After she left, his gaze sharpened and he smiled in a familiar way. The look in his eyes was deepened by his silence, shy and boyish. He seemed awkward, waiting for me to tell him what to do. “I have your room ready,” I said. “Do you want me to show it to you?”

I realized Ernest had walked into the room and stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at Wyatt.

“This is my husband, Ernest,” I told Wyatt.

Ernest stepped in closer and extended his hand, which Wyatt shook. Neither of them said anything, but they looked at each other. Then Wyatt picked up his suitcase and followed me down the hall to Ray-Ray’s old bedroom, where he set some of his things on the bed and looked around the room. Ernest lingered in the hallway.

“This is it,” I said. “I hope you like it.”

He turned to me and smiled, still silent. He put his suitcase down and sat on the edge of the bed. His bangs were in his eyes, and he had to comb his hair back with his fingers so he could see us better. He was small for his age, I thought, though maybe it just seemed that way because of how he was sitting on the edge of the bed. When was the last time we had seen a child in Ray-Ray’s room anyway?

Bernice had mentioned Wyatt was shy. I showed him the extra pillows and blankets in the closet. I wanted to ensure he felt safe. “Any specific requests?” I asked, hoping he might speak up. “A night-light? The door open at night? Anything you need, please ask.”