"I can't see anything," she said.
"Turn it so the hole lines up with the light. It's tiny. You have to get it straight."
She turned it. She frowned. She brought it closer to her eye, and then farther away. I watched her shoulders go up a little bit, the way they do when she's on hold with an insurance company. Behind us, Grandpa stopped chewing.
"Puiule," he said, very quietly. "It's right there."
"I know it's right there, Tata," she said, and her voice was sharp, and then it wasn't. "I know. I'm looking."
And then she went still.
"Oh," she said.
"You see it?"
"There's a dot," she said. "There's a little dot of light." She took it away from her eye and looked at it in her palm and then put it back up to the window and looked again, like she wanted to make sure it was still there. "That's it? That's what you're looking for?"
"That's it. That means it's clear."