She and Robert had argued in an office lobby similar to the one where she now waited for Wren to finish her counseling appointment. Kit had asked him to lower his voice—please—especially in front of other patients. They could speak to the counselor privately about what kind of addiction treatment programs might be most helpful for their son. But Robert had heard of such programs, and it was a waste of money, he said. Perfectly normal for teenagers to experiment. He had experimented when he was Micah’s age and hadn’t suffered any long-term detriment. She was hovering and controlling, Robert said, and maybe if she weren’t so judgmental and condemning—maybe if she would just back off and give Micah space to figure things out, and yes, fail if he needed to, why did she think she could prevent that?—he would outgrow this rebellious phase, just as Robert had.

There was no arguing her husband out of his position, especially when the counselor “took her side” and agreed that more aggressive treatment, which could also help address Micah’s underlying depression, would be a prudent course of action. Robert refused to meet with the counselor again, and his disparaging remarks about therapy in general and Micah’s therapist in particular—which he routinely made in front of their son—severed Micah’s already tenuous commitment to his appointments. Kit couldn’t force him to go. She’d tried and failed.

Wren, thankfully, did not object to going to her appointments, and her counselor had wisely set multiple dates in advance so Wren wouldn’t have to exert herself in making phone calls. All Kit needed to do was remind her when it was time to go and drive her there. And reassure Jamie that yes, Wren was meeting with Dawn. Jamie had learned not to press for specifics, much as she longed for them. Kit understood the longing. And the fear.

She flipped through a magazine, looking at photos. On their way out, she would ask the receptionist if she could have some of the outdated ones to cut up for prayer collages for the retreat session that night. Wren would need to go with her to New Hope so she wouldn’t be alone at the house, and while Kit led the retreat, Wren would probably sleep in one of the guestrooms. Not the one where Casey was supposed to stay, though. Kit had closed and locked that door, thinking it would be better for her if she couldn’t access that space. But sometimes Kit found her in the chapel, resting her head on the chair where he had left his goodbye letter. Vincent had painted a friend’s empty chair, Wren had said in one of her more lucid moments. Empty chairs made her cry.

Kit let her mind drift to their old kitchen table, Micah’s chair pulled out at precisely the angle he had left it. At least, she thought it was the way he’d left it. There had been no memorable last supper together, only an ordinary dinner with their forks scraping against their plates, the sound amplified by the absence of conversation. If she had known she would find her beloved boy the next morning, cold in his bed, what last words would she have tried to speak to him? What words would she have begged him to speak to her?

At least Wren had Casey’s handwritten note—his intentions a mystery, yes, but his love and regret unmistakable. That was a gift.

Dawn’s office door opened and Wren emerged, her dark, unwashed hair partially covered by Casey’s beanie. If Kit could persuade her to relinquish the hat for an hour, she could wash it for her. Wren probably wasn’t aware of the odor emanating from her clothes or body. She hardly had energy to change a shirt, let alone shower, poor thing.

“I’ll see you next week,” Dawn said, her hand resting on Wren’s shoulder. If Wren replied, audibly or otherwise, Kit missed it. But for a moment her own gaze met Dawn’s, and Dawn acknowledged her with a nod, as if to say, “Thank you” and “Please keep doing what you’re doing.”

Kit set the magazine down on the end table. She had enough prayer collage photos to choose from. She would ask for extras another time.

“It won’t take me long to get things organized,” she said as they drove to New Hope. “Then we can head home for a rest before we come back for the retreat.” Straightforward and brief declarations rather than questions seemed to work best. Asking Wren what she felt well enough to do or giving her options only overwhelmed her.

Kit glanced toward the passenger seat, where Wren was leaning her head against the window, eyes closed. The therapy appointments, as necessary as they were, probably exhausted her. Kit remembered nothing from her counseling appointments after Micah died, only that Robert drove her because she didn’t trust herself behind the wheel of a car. He drove her to the psychiatric hospital too, after her counselor insisted she needed inpatient treatment. Kit hadn’t had the energy to object, not to the therapist or Robert, who carried in her suitcase after her intake exam. Odd, how some images were indelibly branded into memory while others left no imprint. He’d set the burgundy case on the green paisley carpet, kissed her on the cheek, and said he’d call the hospital later to check on her. He kept his word. About that, he did.

At New Hope she parked in front of the lobby entrance and opened the car door for Wren when she gave no sign of exiting. “There you go,” Kit said as she reached for her hand, “watch your step here. That’s it. We’ll just check in with Gayle and see what else needs to be done to get ready.” A few weeks ago Wren would have been the one scrubbing bathrooms, vacuuming hallways, and tidying the chapel. Now if she managed to use a duster, it was a victory. Thankfully, Gayle, the part-time receptionist, was willing to put in extra hours to help. She was sympathetic: she had an adult daughter who suffered from depression.

After greeting both of them warmly, Gayle handed Kit a registration list and a few file folders. “I’ve pulled out some of the photo categories I thought might be helpful for the collages.”

Kit thumbed through the labels: food, architecture, nature. These were probably Gayle’s own preferences. “Let’s add the ‘hands and feet’ and ‘roads and pathways’ files too,” Kit said, “for variety’s sake.” She paused, trying to discern her next move, then decided to tread lightly. “Here—let’s ask the artist, shall we?” She lightly touched Wren’s coat sleeve to try to draw her in. “Wren’s done these collages before and has a good eye for such things. Let’s set the folders down on the table here and take a look.” Kit went to the file cabinet and removed the rest of them. “There’s an ‘art’ one here—I forgot I had that one. And an ‘objects’ one and a ‘people and faces’ one.” She set the manila folders next to one another without opening them. “Let’s take a look here, Wren. Just the titles. And you give me a yay or nay. What’s good for a New Year theme? Art?”

She watched Wren for any response. After a few long moments of silence, Wren nodded.

“Okay, good,” Kit said. “What about food?”

Her response was marginally quicker—a slight shake of the head. Not surprising. Ever since Casey died, Kit hadn’t found much food that enticed her. “Okay, we’ll set this one aside for now. But this one is kind of interesting, the ‘hands and feet’ one. Would you like to take a look and see what you think?”

To Kit’s delight, Wren reached forward and opened the file herself. After a moment’s silence, she murmured, “Yes.”

Such a good word, yes. “Right. And what about one more? How about if you choose between the ‘roads and pathways’ and ‘people and faces’?”

Wren hesitated, then said quietly, “You could put all of them out.”

Kit smiled. “Well, you’re right about that. There’s no reason not to, is there? Let people choose from a wide variety of what speaks to them. Good idea.” She gathered the file folders together and nudged Wren’s shoulder gently. “Maybe even the food one, huh? Someone might like to choose a cake or plum or something.”

Wren nodded again. Kit handed her the folders. “I’ll get the glue sticks and cardstock squares, if you can carry these folders down to the big classroom for me and set them on the table. We can either leave the folders for people to browse through, or we can pull out some photos for them to select from. Could you do that for me, Wren? Carry those to the room?”

“Okay.”

“Great. I’ll be there in a minute.” After Wren disappeared around the corner, Kit thanked Gayle.

“Sure thing.” Gayle lowered her voice. “She seems a little brighter today, don’t you think?”

“Maybe a bit.”

It was a temptation she would need to fight, Kit thought as she walked down the hallway a few minutes later—the temptation to monitor Wren moment by moment for signs of improvement. It was something she had cautioned Jamie about as well, how it was more important to look for a larger trajectory toward wellness than at the daily questions of, “Did she eat? Did she shower? Did she change her clothes? Did she get out of bed? Did she engage in any conversation?” Not that those activities wouldn’t be significant vital signs. But they couldn’t become a basis for hope. Only Christ crucified and risen could bear the weight of human hope. All other things would crumble under it. All earthly things, it seemed, did.

When Kit entered the large retreat space, Wren was at the center table, hovering over a...