“I know,” Isabel said, and she did—knew it in her bones, in her marrow, had been haunted by it for weeks, months. Eva, a teen wrapped in her own arms, outside by the bush, waiting as her mother screamed to be let in, to have her house back. Eva before the war, a child, collecting her things in a box, colored pencils and a doll with long hair and a little stuffed hare.
