“We got it?” Marcela whispered.

“I can’t,” Ethel whispered. “But I’ll call every Sunday. And when you’re fifteen, you can come find me. Promise.”

“Sunday,” she said flatly. “Don’t forget.”

Ethel blinked. “Thank you.”

The tension broke like a snapped string. Clara actually clapped her hands together once. Mr. Shaw took off his glasses and cleaned them, even though they weren’t dirty.