But there was still so much of her here, pieces of her past. She ran her fingertips lightly over the doorframe, tracing the faded penciled lines she coerced her father into making to chart her growth because she'd seen it done on TV. Across the room, the same view of the old oak tree and the street below greeted her, a vision she'd gazed out upon for hours and hours, years and years, dreaming of something more exciting. Without even looking, she knew the dark stain would be on the ceiling above the bed, a mark created one lazy, summer afternoon when she was nine and Nic was eleven, and they decided they absolutely had to know if mixing Diet Coke and Mentos really did make an explosion.

The memories threatened to overwhelm her, but she forced them aside, wiping her...

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