Less every month.
"Does it still—" Paige said.
"A little," Lucy said. "Not as much as it did."
Paige nodded. She stood there a moment longer, with her face in the collar of her mother's coat, and then she turned and lifted it, carefully, and settled it onto the last hook. The bent one. The one closest to the closet door. She smoothed the shoulders so they hung even. She straightened the belt so it fell down the front in two even lengths. She did it slowly, the way you might arrange a sleeping person's blanket, and when she was done she left her hand resting on the green wool for a second.
Then she reached out and folded back the left lapel.
The name was there in the lining. Green on green. You had to tilt your head to catch it in the light.
"Winnie," Paige said.
She said it out loud, quietly, as if she were trying out a word in a foreign language. As if she wanted to know how it would feel in her mouth. Then she let the lapel fall back into place, and the name was hidden again, turned inward, where it had always been.
She looked at Lucy.
"Lucy," she said.
Just that. Just the name. But she said it like it was the first time, and maybe in some way it was.
"Yeah," Lucy said.
Out in the driveway their father sat in his truck with the snow covering the windshield. In the kitchen Paige's mother sat in front of a spreadsheet she couldn't see. Upstairs, a birth certificate lay crumpled on a bedroom floor with a name on it that was both true and not true. None of it was fixed. Lucy knew that. She thought Paige probably knew it too.
Paige looked down at the envelope in her hand.
"I don't know if I can read this," she said.