Judy smiles.  “Thanks, dear.  I meant what I said out there.  About your parents.  I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” Megan says.  She’s been told sorry so many times since their death that it’s getting to the point where she’d like to start telling people to quit.  But not yet.  There’s still something oddly comforting by it.

“Cindy, please meet our other guest,” Judy says.

From a hallway along the far side of the kitchen, a girl of about twelve, her hair tied back in a pristine French braid, strolls in.  She catches her breath when she spies Megan, quickly shifting her gaze down.