She’s playing dress-up, her friends from school are at her house.

“Can we play with your mom’s clothes?”

Shirts. Dresses. Skirts. A paper. A paper? She pulls it out. It’s a newspaper clipping, torn from the paper and worn around the edges.

“Newborn dead—fatal accident.” How sad, she thinks. Babies are so cute. She reads on, “dropped on head by sister.”

Penciled into the margin is one word—“Miranda.”

Black. Everything goes black. One word, just one. And everything shatters.

“Miranda.”