“We’re friends,” like it was a ludicrous question. Which it wasn’t. There were fifty-five years between them. They looked at art together, and went to the movies. Caitlin invited Marilyn to join them for Thanksgiving. Friendsgiving, they called it. The apartment was full of young people, flirting and laughing and bouncing fat babies on their hips. She was older than anyone else there by half a century. Caitlin didn’t seem to find this odd, so Marilyn decided she wouldn’t either. She had a ball.