Dottie placed a hand over her heart. “Cross my heart, hope to fly, stick a feather in my pie,” she said with a wink, borrowing a line from a nursery rhyme that seemed to soothe Junie’s worries.

As we stood there, the sun warming our backs, I realized this small misunderstanding had opened a door to something bigger. Junie had been grappling with the concept of loss, trying to make sense of what had happened with her grandfather. She couldn’t bear the thought of another goodbye, especially not with a friend as beloved as Clove.