"Take the keys," Holly's father says, slamming the car door.
"Isaiah, hurry—" Alessandra's voice cuts off when Holly opens the backseat and presses a doll against her chest.
"She's fine," Isaiah says, already walking away. His shoes scuff on the curb. He doesn't look back.
"She's not fine," Ivy answers from the doorway. She steps into the morning sun with flour on her apron and a ready glare. "You can leave your receipts and go. You two look like you left a showroom and dropped a child."
Alessandra straightens a coat pocket that cost more than Ivy's winter jacket. Her smile is careful and thin. She leans down to Holly as if distance could fix whatever ailed the child's face.
Holly's fingers clamp harder on the doll. The doll's hair is a tangle, its eyelid hanging. Holly breathes through a small sound that isn't a sob yet.
"Don't touch her head like that," Alessandra whispers. "We're already late."
"She can sit here while we talk," Ivy says. "I made lemonade."
"We don't have time," Alessandra says, voice flat. She puts two fingers under Holly's chin like she can set her face right. "Holly, sweetheart—"
"Please," Holly says before the grown-ups finish. Her voice is small and fierce. "Please don't go."
Alessandra stiffens. "Mom, this isn't—"
Ivy points at the doll. "What happened to that thing?"
"It fell," Holly says, eyes on the doll
