"Callum" she warned, "that mouth of yours."

"I'm tired." I sat on the couch she wanted me to buy. "And I'm extra cranky."

"Clearly." She sat beside me. "And . . . miss Everly?"

"No I don't miss Everly," I groaned. "I'm dying a slow and painful death without Everly."

Quietly she replied, "She isn't fairing much better."

I glanced over at her. "How do you know?"

"You asked me to be a mother to her," she shrugged. "A good mother knows these things about her daughter."

"But how are you seeing her? I can't even get someone to pass her the fuckin' phone. I'm sorry. I know. My mouth."

She patted my knee. "Remember what I told you about her father? About how maybe his actions were a cry for help? Well, I went to him and asked if I could help in any way."

"And he let you? We're talking about Timothy Brighton? Timothy Brighton who forced me to live in Georgia and not see his daughter for what could be-the last year of her life? That guy?"

"Well," she smiled, "I brought him brownies. Did you ever go to his door with brownies?"

All the air deflated from my chest. Marta nudged my arm with her shoulder. "Hey boy. It'll all be okay. You grew up strong, remember?"

"Go back to the biscuit making part," I said. "I want to hear about Everly Anne making biscuits."

Marta smiled. "She is a little thinker, isn't she? Watching her in the kitchen, it's almost like she's dreamed of all the things she was never able to do, but planned them out in her head in a way that she could, if ever given the chance."

"So you know about CIPA," I replied.

"Yes, Andrew told me. Actually," she sighed, "I guess he's been telling me for years, but I never knew what he meant."

"The girl in his dream," I nodded. "Yeah, it was Everly."

"I thought it was Julep. I never imagined him ever dreaming of someone else."

I breathed for a moment. "He doesn't dream of anyone else. It's all the same nightmare. You can't escape pain, even if you're born lacking the ability to feel it, the shit still finds you. Even in your sleep."

Marta was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry that you're hurting, Callum. I'm sorry that I have never been able to that mend that hurt . . . in either of you."

"It's okay," I said. "I understand it now. The pain, the happiness, it's all a partnership."

She nodded. "Yes."

We sat silent as people walked by us, picking out furniture. I searched again, trying to find Everly Anne inside of the store. Was she in the poster bed? The oak, the cherry? The suede couch I was sitting on? What would she want?

I rubbed my face in frustration. "I need to talk to her."

Marta glanced over. "You can't."

"If you can make biscuits with her, surely, you can hand her a cell phone."

"And if Everly goes home to her father after talking to you on that cell phone, what will she bring home with her, Callum? If her father looks at her face and doesn't see that blank stare looking back at him that he has grown familiar with, what will a man like Timothy Brighton wonder?"

"I have to do something," I said. "I can't sit here for a year and simply wait."

Marta nodded and then stood. "Buy a couch. Buy her a ring. Make her a home. Give her somewhere to go when the year is over. This is all something."

I lay down on the couch and exhaled. "This . . . this is an ugly fuckin' couch."

Marta laughed with a heavy sigh.

"Yeah, boy. It sure is."

Hidden away in the Call Room I searched for her in between emergencies. Timothy's name turned up headlines of his history. It was both terrifying and amazing what playing detective on the internet could provide.

Behind the curtain of bed number 34 was a case of head-meet-desk. And a smoking, heavily tattooed, man.