Tell the Wolves I'm Home by Carol Rifka Brunt

couple days. I’ll have it all framed up by, say, Tuesday morning.” Mr. Trusky scribbled on a pad.
    â€œLeave it?” I said.
    My mother put a hand on my shoulder. “He can’t do it right now, honey. It takes some time.”
    â€œBut I don’t like the idea of leaving it here. Away from us.”
    â€œCome on, now, don’t be rude. Mr. Trusky’s doing his very best.” My mother smiled at Mr. Trusky, but he was still writing on his pad.
    â€œI’ll tell you what. I’ll come in special tomorrow afternoon, just for you, and I’ll bring it over to your house when I’m done with it. Okay?”
    I nodded. It would still be away overnight, but it seemed like the best deal I was going to get.
    â€œSay thank you to Mr. Trusky, please, June. This is awfully nice of him.”
    I thanked him and we left. Mr. Trusky kept his promise, and the painting came back to us the next day. He propped it up on the kitchen counter so we could have a good look.
    â€œNow, that’s one handsome piece of art,” my father said, hands on his hips.
    â€œAnd the frame is perfect. We do appreciate everything you’ve done,” my mother said.
    â€œIt makes all the difference, you know,” Mr. Trusky said.
    Both my parents nodded, though I’m not sure they were even listening.
    â€œAnd what about you, June? Are you happy?” Mr. Trusky asked.
    It was the kind of question you had to say yes to. But really I wasn’t. All I could see was me and Greta shoved into that frame together. No matter what happened, the two of us would always be trapped inside those four pieces of wood.

Eleven
    â€œCan you sign for it …” The mailman pointed at a line halfway down a paper on his clipboard. His cap was tipped down with the peak covering his eyes. He scanned the list of names. “… June. June Elbus.”
    This was on an afternoon a couple of weeks after Finn’s funeral, when I was the only one home. I nodded and took the pen from his hand, which was shaking a little. As I signed my name, I could see out of the corner of my eye that the mailman was peeking into the house. After I signed, he handed me a box.
    â€œThanks,” I said, glancing up at him.
    He stared back at me, and for a moment it seemed like he wanted to say something to me. Then he smiled and said, “Yeah. Right. It’s fine … June.”
    He turned to go, but then he stopped and stood there for another moment, his back to me.
    I started easing the door closed, but the mailman still stood there, not moving. For a second it looked like he was about to turn around. He put a finger up in the air like he was about to say something, but then he didn’t. He just let his hand drop and walked away.
    I went straight up to my room and scooted onto my bed. I sat cross-legged with the package on my lap. The box was entirely covered in tape. It was like someone had taken a roll of brown packing tape andwrapped it around and around in every direction until the box completely disappeared. I tried to find an end to pull, but I couldn’t, so I used scissors to cut through the top. It wasn’t my birthday and it was two months past Christmas. There was no return address on that box. Nothing at all except my name and address written in black permanent marker on top of the tape.
    Inside were two big overpacked blobs, one smaller than the other. I opened the smaller one first. As I got down to the last few layers of bubble wrap and newspaper, I started to feel what it was. Then I saw a flash of brilliant blue with gold and red, and I realized that it was the lid of Finn’s Russian teapot. I almost dropped it right onto the floor. After all that careful packaging, I almost let it slip right out of my fingers. I quickly moved on to the bigger piece. Ripping at it. Desperate to see the whole pot again.
    The last time I’d seen that teapot was that last Sunday we went to