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Maya nodded seriously, clutching a pillow. 鈥淕randma would鈥檝e hated this.鈥�

鈥淪o,鈥� Maya said. 鈥淲hat happens in May?鈥�

Leo sat back on his heels. The sun was lowering, turning the new leaves gold. Somewhere down the street, a lawnmower coughed to life. A cardinal sang from the telephone wire.

They spent the first week doing what people in the Midwest do in April: watching the sky. They watched it turn from a bruised purple to a soft, milky blue in the span of an afternoon. They watched a line of thunderstorms roll in like a freight train at 3 a.m., and Leo taught Maya how to read a radar map by flashlight.

Leo stood on the wet grass, staring at the tree Eleanor had planted twenty years ago. A mourning dove cooed from a low branch. The air smelled like rain and crushed mint. For the first time since January, he felt something other than absence. He felt a crack of warmth, thin as a spring sapling, push through the frost in his chest.

And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

Leo poured two cups of coffee (one for him, one for Maya, mostly milk and sugar) and they sat on the porch steps. A bee bumbled past. The air was soft.

Leo smiled. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 May鈥檚 problem. Right now, we鈥檙e still in April.鈥�