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The certainty in his answer almost makes me believe it on her behalf.

Ivy studies him. “Promise?”

Alexei cups the back of her head and kisses her forehead. “I promise you I will not let them take you.”

He doesn't promise they won't come. He promises they won't succeed. Somehow, that feels very Alexei.

Ivy seems satisfied with the answer. She nods and climbs onto the rug near the table where Agatha sets out paper, colored pencils, safety scissors, glue, and enough craft supplies to keep a small army busy.

“Well, ain't this fancy,” I say, lowering myself beside Ivy.

“Miss Ivy has a craft cabinet,” Agatha explains. “Irina kept it stocked.”

At the mention of Irina's name, Ivy goes still.

My heart clenches. Agatha's face falls, and I can see the regret there. She didn't mean harm. Grief has a way of hiding in ordinary sentences, just waiting to trip everybody who loves the person who is gone.

I place a sheet of paper in front of Ivy and keep my voice steady. “I bet Irina picked good colors.”

Ivy stares at the basket for a minute before reaching for a purple pencil. “She liked purple.”

“Then purple sounds like a fine place to start.”

Her fingers wrap around the pencil. Slowly, she draws a crooked line across the page. Then another. I don't ask what it is, and neither does Alexei. We let her make marks until the white paper begins filling with purple, yellow, and green.

Agatha excuses herself, wiping beneath one eye before she leaves. Alexei remains near the windows, speaking low into his phone but never moving far.

Daisy stays tucked beside Ivy while Winston decides the craft table deserves further investigation. A moment later, his tail catches a plastic cup full of colored pencils and sends it tumbling onto the rug.

Winston jumps, and Ivy laughs. The sound surprises all of us.

“Winston Agapov, you have all the grace of a biscuit dropped on the floor,” I inform him.

Ivy giggles again, and Daisy thumps her tail.

Alexei stops talking mid-sentence. When I glance up, he's watching Ivy. Not with relief exactly. Not happiness either. More like a man witnessing the return of oxygen after hours underwater.

Then I realize he's looking at me. I look away first because if I don't, I'll feel too much, and I've already felt enough to fill ten lifetimes since yesterday.

Ivy draws in a slow breath. “Can people in heaven see drawings?”

“I believe they can,” I tell her.

“Do you know for sure?”

“No, baby,” I answer honestly. “But I believe it with my whole heart.”

That seems to satisfy her. She turns back to the page and keeps coloring.

For the next hour, we make flowers. Paper ones with crooked stems, crayon ones with too many petals, and one construction-paper bouquet that leaves glue on my fingers and glitter on my jeans despite my best efforts. Ivy speaks more as we work. She tells me Irina used to braid her hair before school, make soup when she had a cough, and never let Winston sleep on the bed, except once when he looked sad.

By late morning, Ivy's energy starts to fade. Her coloring slows, and she leans against my side until her cheek rests on my arm.

“How about we stretch our legs for a bit?” I ask. “Fresh air might do us some good.”

She glances toward Alexei. “Can we?”

“Yes.” He looks up from his phone. “But you stay where I can see you.”