three doors.
Owen drew Captain standing on a boat under a very large cloud.
I watched his hand move across the paper, dark crayon pressing too hard near the sky.
“Is the boat sinking?” I asked gently.
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Who’s driving it?”
“Captain.”
“Where is it going?”
Owen added a small shape on the horizon. “Somewhere with pancakes.”
Lily leaned over. “And a mommy?”
Owen froze.
His crayon stopped.
Then he drew a tiny figure beside the boat, so faint it was almost invisible.
“Maybe,” he said.
That one word followed me for the rest of the day.
Maybe.
It lived in the elevator as Elise and I rode down from the agency office. It sat between us in the car. It stood behind my shoulder when I stared out at Chicago’s gray afternoon and watched people cross streets with umbrellas blooming above them.
Maybe Anna
