Memories surfaced with startling clarity, like photographs spilling from a drawer that hadn't been opened in years.
The little park near their old apartment.
Sacha trailing a few steps behind, keeping an eye on the two younger children without ever making it obvious. Mia's bright laugh, the gap where her front tooth had been when they were eight.
The way she always insisted on sharing whatever sweets her parents bought her, even when there wasn't much to share.
Sacha's father teaching them how to fly a cheap plastic kite that snapped apart within an hour and was nevertheless mourned like a priceless treasure. And Mia's parents; kind and warm.
The sort of people who treated Stan and Sacha as though they belonged to the family.
Mia's mother had fed them more meals than he could count.
Mia's father had once carried Stan home on his shoulders after he'd scraped his knee badly enough to cry. Ten-year-old Stan had been mortified by the attention, but he'd secretly loved it.
