Apparently, he had money to live on; groceries, laundry, pizza, and parcels arrived at his door regularly. once in a while, Molly and I left him baskets of muffins or cookies; the food disappeared, but we rarely saw Victor. Now, pale hands taped a cardboard snowman to the glass. The blinds went down again. Hands, but no face. This wouldn’t count, then, as an actual Victor sighting.

Even unseen, Victor was one of the only neighbors I knew. Victor and old Charlie, Victor’s next-door neighbor. Charlie was the handyman for the remodeled townhouses across the street. Somebody new had moved into the house on the other side of Charlie. I hadn’t met him yet, but I’d become well acquainted with the huge electric Santa and reindeer that flashed on and off, day and night, from his first-floor window like the sign at an all-night diner. Every blink announced that Christmas was coming and that I wasn’t ready, hadn’t gotten organized, didn’t even have our tree. or presents or baking ingredients or decorations. “Mom?”

oh. Molly was still waiting for my guess. “okay—I bet I have it. It’s a song.”

“A song?” She turned to look at me. “You’re teasing. You can’t make a song out of snow.”

“You mean it’s not a song? Then I give up.”

“okay. I’ll tell you. She’s a snowbaby. A little iddy biddy one.” She busied herself gathering and shaping snow, narrating her process. “And her name’s going to be Kelly. No. Emma . . .” She jabbered on, accompanied by the chain saw. I let my head rest against the bricks, my eyelids float down, my mind drift.

“Eww. Yuck.”

Eww, yuck? I didn’t want to get up again. I didn’t even want to open my eyes. The sun felt so gentle and soothing. A warm caress. “Molly. Remember, don’t touch stuff you find in the street. Leave it alone. Okay?”

Silence. Damn. What relic of city life had she found now? I always worried about debris she might encounter on the sidewalk. Broken Budweiser bottles, used needles. Discarded underwear. Used condoms. “Molly? What are you doing?”

She was fixated on it, whatever it was; her monologue had stopped. I opened an eye and watched her dig, retrieving something from the snow.

“Molly, don’t pick up stuff from the street.” How many times a day did I have to repeat that? Ignoring me, she closed her hand around it and lifted the thing.

“You’re not listening to me. Okay. Time to go in.”

She didn’t move. She held on to whatever it was and stared.

The gravel eyes of a snowbaby followed me as I came down the front steps.

“Molly. Drop it.”

Silently, she let it go, and it landed on the snowy sidewalk with a tiny frozen thud. I looked down. At first, I thought it was a stick. Then I saw the red part. Damn. What had she picked up? A hunk of rotting meat? A half-eaten hot dog?

“Molly. Answer me. Are you allowed to touch stuff from the street?”

She looked up with wide, baffled eyes. “No.”

Taking her by the wrist, I glanced once more at the thing on the ground. It lay at our feet, filthy, bright red at one end, its form gradually taking definition. I blinked at it a few times. Then, holding on to Molly, I fled with knees of jelly, in slow motion, up the steps.

Under the grime, there was no mistaking what it was, even though the nail was broken and the crimson polish chipped.

TWO

“ZOE, WHAT DO YOU EXPECT? THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN kids play on the street.”

Susan set the measuring cup on the counter and pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. Susan Cummings was my best friend. As soon as the police left, Molly and I had rushed to her house, and I’d just finished telling her what had happened.

Susan’s house felt safe. Located about ten blocks from us on Pine Street, it was a solid 150-year-old brick building with twelve-foot-high ceilings, framed arched doorways, cut glass windows, and polished hardwood floors. It was full of fireplaces, cushioned furnishings, and cinnamon smells. Susan’s neighborhood, near Rittenhouse Square, was a picture of prosperity and stability. Neighbors with Gucci shoes popped over for a glass of pinot noir or homemade biscotti. In summers, they organized block parties; in winters, they gathered for eggnog and Christmas gifts. The street was pristine, wreathed for the holidays and safe to walk, even at night.

My neighborhood, on the other hand, managed to remain rough-edged and unruly. In the mornings, nannies pushed lace-lined