Ruth’s car occupied the rear row. Its rear corner was mangled, black paint streaked the white panel, and ditch grass filled the front.
I opened the back passenger door. Nora’s pink car seat remained fastened in place. Burst-bag cheddar crackers littered the floor.
The man from the lot stood close by. When I explained to him my daughter was supposed to ride in that seat, he took off his cap.
“Take all the time you need.”
I recovered Ruth’s glasses from the cup holder and purse beneath the front seat. Afterward, I sat beside the empty car seat until I could make myself move.
Thursday evening, I unpacked Nora’s backpack. Inside were juice, a hair bow, a stone, and her purple tablet in a foam unicorn cover.
Dalton gave it to her at her first birthday. Grant was asking me to set up parental controls, and I eventually opened the settings.
