FOR THE WHOLE AFTERNOON, Emily pinches herself: Is she real? She takes off K.T.’s clogs and her new drugstore socks and examines her toes, which look the same as they always have, but have they traveled somewhere and not told her? After Emily doesn’t return to the room in time for Sunday dinner, K.T. comes looking. When K.T. finds her, Emily stands up from her carrel, first stretching her arms above her head and then stretching them out to K.T., who steps into them. The hug is long and stabilizing. “I was worried,” K.T. says. “I’m sorry.” “Why did you leave like that?” “I don’t know,” says Emily. “I’m really sorry.” “You said that already. Listen, I called Madame Colche. She’s going to make you dinner.” “Oh, K.T., I wish you hadn’t—” “Well, I wish you’d come back when you’re supposed to,” K.T. says. “I’m not hungry,” Emily says. “I’ll go with you. Come on, you need to eat something, and it’ll be nice.” And it is nice. While Madame Colche whips up mushroom and spinach omelets, Emily and K.T.
