On our drive over to the Golden Cone, Harper sifts through my glove compartment in search of a pen. She pulls my hand onto her lap, doodling some flower pattern on the back of my wrist. When we coast up to a stop sign, she flips my hand and scribbles her first initial on my upturned palm. There—right at the base of my thumb—is a capital H with a loopy little heart above the center. It’s silly, inconsequential really, but for some reason, it still makes my pulse hum heavy in my chest. Moments later, while we wait at the drive-through window, I grab her hand and scribble a tiny cursive L in the
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