Aurora had not moved from where we landed. She stood with her arms at her sides and her orange hair catching the gold light like copper wire and her green eyes doing that thing where they stopped being playful and became the other thing, the deeper thing, the one that looked at people and saw straight through every wall they'd ever built. She was staring at the pavilion with an expression I could not read and did not try to.
"Aurora," I said.
"The curtains," she said.
"What about them."
"They're the same ones from my mother's restaurant. In Boston. Before she moved us to California." Aurora's voice was very even and very careful. "White sheer panels, iron hooks. She bought them at a secondhand store in Quincy Market and hung them herself because the landlord wouldn't fix the windows that let in drafts. I told you about them once. On the ferry. You were eating a sandwich and I didn't think you were listening."
"I was eating a sandwich," I confirmed. "I was also listening."
