"Gracie, look—your mother." "Where?" Gracie held her cereal bowl with both hands, milk sloshing against the rim. Joanne reached out, smoothing a loose curl at the girl’s temple with a thumb that smelled faintly of scallion oil. "There. Costume drama tonight. Big crowd, big dress." "Is she pretty?" Gracie pointed at the actress on the flat-screen, a woman in a gown, hair piled high, laughing on camera. "Yes." Joanne turned the TV volume down. "Pretty like a parade. But pretty doesn't mean she knows you." "Does she know I like cucumbers?" Gracie asked, solemn. Joanne tilted her head and smiled with one side of her mouth. "She might. People who forget often remember small things without remembering people." Gracie considered that, then held out a half cucumber slice. "Do you want some? For when you meet her." "She can't eat cucumbers through a screen, silly." Joanne laughed and took the slice, biting it with deliberate slowness. "We are secret treasure, Gracie." "Secret treasure?" Gracie's voice made the phrase into a question-mark balloon. "Yes." Joanne stood and wiped her hands on her apron. She moved to the stove, turning the little gas flame down, lifting a battered pan of scallion pancakes. "We hide our best things where no one will take them." Gracie watched Joanne with big, careful eyes. "Will anyone take me?" "No." Joanne's answer landed soft and firm. "Not while I'm here." "Promise?" Gracie asked. Joanne crouched until their eyes