Tears sprung up so fast and so furious, my nose burned from the shock of them. I shook my head and my blacker than black strands whipped my face. "How do you know about the postcards?"

She lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Shadows know all kinds of things."

"Why would I do that? Why would I want to be sad?"

She patted my leg. "I could say something cheesy here about needing rain before a rainbow, but I'll spare you. To answer your question, sweet girl, most of your challenges are for you to grow as a person. This challenge is for your mama. So she isn't forgotten."

"Forgotten?" I was shocked. How could Millie think I would ever forget my mom? "I would never forget her," I promised Millie.

"No? Do you remember her handwriting? The way she tapped the top of a can before opening it? How she loved burned pretzels and curled up chips? That the sun made her sneeze?"

"Please, stop." It was too much to bear. I remembered watching a show about a woman who had her stomach stapled. Afterward, it simply couldn't hold all she was used to eating. That's how my heart felt. Stapled. It couldn't hold the memories of my mom Millie was bringing into it. It might unstaple and explode, killing me in the process.

"One thing," Millie coaxed, "tell me one thing you remember about her."

It hurt so much to talk about my mom. To think about my mom. I missed her too much. More than anybody in the world had ever missed their mom, I was convinced. A selfish thought, but I'd never cared. I missed her most. It was less painful if I didn't think about her. It made life easier. But if giving Millie a memory would stop her from chattering on about the details of her, then I would give her a memory.

"Torn jeans. She loved ripped jeans. Wore them nearly every day even though she was probably too old for them. Or some people would think that anyway. I don't think she owned a pair that weren't ripped."

Mille shut her eyes and nodded, as though she'd known my mom and remembered her ripped jeans well. She reached for my hand and it was soft and warm and impossibly fleshy. "Read the postcards, Nora." And then she was gone. Vanished. And I wondered for the millionth time if the shadows were mere figments of my imagination. But I smelled dilly rolls, and Barbara put her head up, confused about where her friend had gone and I knew for the millionth and first time the shadows were very real.