She walks by the post office, by the mud puddle that looks alien now, a puddle from another life. She touches the barbed wire of the fence that surrounds the Tech offices, but that is too real, too close. She walks away, one foot in front of the other, trying to stay blank. Tabula rasa. Who said that? She can almost hear Papa’s voice and she won’t. She can’t. She starts saying the multiplication table, fast, under her breath, as if it were a chant that will keep all other thoughts at bay.

Dewey puts her hands in her pockets. Her fingers curl unexpectedly around a small black Bakelite knob and caress it as if it were a talisman, the ball of her thumb tracing the smooth curve over and over and over.

She walks around the edge of the Hill, without intention, looping east, then north, until she finds herself in Morganville. She walks by the small empty house, touches the glass of the front window gently, her palm flat against the cool pane. She remembers the feel of Papa’s rough-bearded cheek, the smell of wool and aftershave, and pulls her hand away as if she were burned.

Dewey begins the multiplication table again, out loud, starting with the twelves, because the bigger the number, the more power it has. Numbers don’t change. Numbers don’t leave. Numbers don’t die. They go on for eternity, infinity, and there is comfort in that.

She walks and chants until the sky in the west is streaked with orange and the margins of the forest have grown dusky blue and indistinct in the twilight. She walks until the lights of the apartments wink on, until the stars begin to appear at the edge of the world.

When she can no longer see the ground in front of her, can barely make out the shapes of her own shoes, Dewey returns to the road that leads past the Sundts. She would walk all night, but someone would come looking for her, and that would make it harder. She counts her steps—one, two, three, four—and at three hundred seventeen, she is at the foot of the Gordons’ stairs. The kitchen light is on, but she does not hear voices.

She climbs three steps, then sits down in the darkness, in the shadow of the building where she is nearly invisible. She rests her head against the wood siding, slightly warmer than the night air. Dewey closes her eyes and leans against the solidity of the wall, her fingers curled protectively around a small, smooth knob, softly murmuring numbers until her lips are barely moving, chanting herself into a stillness that soon becomes sleep.

“Hey, kiddo, ” a voice from above her says softly.

Dewey twists to look up the stairs. Mrs. Gordon is sitting on the top step, in a wedge of light from the open kitchen door. She is wearing her reading glasses, a sheaf of papers in one hand, a cigarette in the other, its tip glowing as bright as neon in the darkness. An amber beer bottle rests by her thigh.

“I fell asleep, ” Dewey says.

“I know. I’ve been keeping an eye on you. ” Mrs. Gordon pushes her glasses up onto her hair. She shakes the beer bottle, then drops her cigarette into the neck. There is a quick hiss, then silence. “I made some lemonade. I thought you might be thirsty when you woke up. ”

“What time is it?” asks Dewey.

“A little after midnight. ”

“Oh. ” Dewey is not usually up this late. But nothing is usual. She swallows, testing her throat, and nods. She stands up awkwardly, bracing herself against the wall, her leg all pins and needles, and slowly climbs the stairs.

She pauses two steps from the top, eye level with Mrs. Gordon, uncertain whether to continue and sit down next to her. Mrs. Gordon smiles. “It’s okay, ” she says, and puts her hand on Dewey’s shoulder, pulling her into a hug.

Dewey is surprised, but lets her. It feels nice, Mrs. Gordon’s arms around her, her face against the soft cotton of the plaid shirt.

“There, there, kiddo, ” Mrs. Gordon whispers. “I miss him too. He was one of the good guys. ”

Dewey trembles and closes her eyes. She feels Mrs. Gordon’s arm under her knees, feels herself being lifted, then cradled, and allows herself to sink into Mrs. Gordon’s lap. She feels the faint brush of a kiss on her forehead, and then she is gently rocked. No one has held her like this since Nana, when she was little, in those first lonely weeks in St. Louis. Something inside Dewey lets go. She finally begins to cry, a slow, steady trickle, as if she is leaking.