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“There was a winter when the school bus slid off the road,” Maeve said, her voice softening. “Kids climbed out, cheeks like apples. They stamped their boots and hung up mitten photos on the nails you see inside.” She opened the outhouse door and led Ellie in. The interior smelled faintly of cedar and lavender sachets; plastered in a patchwork were Polaroids and torn cornered prints, faded by sun and time. A sepia wedding portrait grinned from above a child’s drawing of a cow.

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Later, they sat on the porch steps as the sun slid toward the treeline, sipping lemonade and sorting the day’s prints. Maeve selected one and tapped it with a forefinger. “This one’s yours,” she said. It was a picture Ellie had taken of the leaning outhouse, the light caught perfectly along the eaves. “You’ve got an eye.” “There was a winter when the school bus