The Pieces We Keep by Kristina McMorris

situation had both tangled and untangled in such a short span. All she knew for certain was how much she suddenly needed him close.
    She moved forward and delighted in the feel of his arms enfolding her. She rested her head against his neck, absorbing the thrum of his pulse, the scent of his skin. A lavish mix of tobacco, vanilla, and sage. “How did you know where to find me?” she murmured.
    “At the end of a long day, your favorite place to go?”
    It was testament to existing in another’s world, of being greater than a speck of dust.
    “I know you, Vivian. And you know me.”
    She raised her head. A tingling spread through her as she placed her lips on his. He returned the kiss with such intimacy her knees almost gave out.
    Once more he held her for a long, wordless moment. Finally he said, “I suppose you’d better get home. Wouldn’t want your parents to fret.”
    Though reluctant, she agreed. Another lecture from her mother held no appeal.
    His arm curled around her shoulder as they walked toward the Underground. They were a pair of the strolling lovers whom only minutes ago she had envied.
    Three blocks later, stained concrete stairs led them down to a station platform. Together they waited for her train, bound for Hyde Park, a brief jaunt from her family’s home.
    Beneath the brim of his cap, Isaak stared off in silence. This time she knew what he was thinking.
    Cautious of listeners, she asked, “What will you do? About your family?”
    He shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know yet. Find out all I can to help them, I suppose. Pray to God we don’t wind up in another war.”
    Without foresight of what was to come, there was little to say.
    Too soon the train arrived. A final kiss, a squeeze of hands, and she boarded. She waved through the window as the transport pulled away. “I love you too,” she said under her breath and watched Isaak shrink from view.
    In the darkness of a tunnel, Vivian fidgeted with her sleeve. Solutions began to form. They crowded her thoughts, hungry as weeds, until one emerged with promise. The file cabinet in her father’s den was the seed of hope she needed.
    But where might she find the key?

7
    T here were no clear answers, only a problem that continued to grow.
    Audra sank into the padded stool, a stethoscope looping her neck. Alone in the lab of the clinic, she pulled out the card from that morning. She had only accepted it to be polite. How could she have refused with the man sitting right there?

    Dr. Newman Shaw
Licensed therapist
Talk—Trust—Heal

    The tagline sounded so simple. Three steps, three syllables. You could almost forget how many years and payments it would take to sustain hope of reaching the goal.
    A mix of yips and whines drifted in from the kennel. But it was the melodic whimpers that reminded her of a cocker spaniel she’d once treated. A middle-school boy had abused the puppy for kicks—and this was after extensive counseling for tendencies of violence. Evidently the sessions were as helpful to the kid as Audra’s had been for her.
    Weeks after Devon’s funeral, a friend of a friend suggested a grief counselor downtown. Audra had gone there for one reason only: to garner advice for helping Jack adjust. As it turned out, six appointments with a frizzy-haired shrink who assigned every feeling to a particular shape and color had been six appointments too many.
    Maybe Audra had been too hasty. The ability now to decode the shapes and colors in Jack’s drawings might have been useful. Obviously, he would never hurt a puppy for kicks; at four, he had even begged her to save a bee from drowning in a puddle. Yet his current behavior seemed a blatant cry for help.
    She rubbed the business card between her fingers. The phone wouldn’t dial itself. She grabbed the handset from the counter and began to press the numbers.
    “You’re here!”
    She swung toward the greeting.
    Entering the room was Tess Graniello. In her signature style, she wore