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Suggest a welcome casserole for Ruthie soon, tuna noodle like Carol's. The two agree as you go cut out a piece of the casserole and wrap it up. You three then leave Carol’s house and walk over to Ruthie’s. You knock on the door and Ruthie answers. She’s shocked to see you changed and asks about it. You don’t answer it as you say that you made casserole for her. She takes it and closes the door.

"Well, sugar, you can't just *fix* a gal," you say, setting down your cup. "You have to feed her first. That's how it's done — I did it for Carol, didn't I? A welcome casserole. Tuna noodle. Nobody refuses tuna noodle." "Oh, that's *good*," Vivian says, tapping your knee. "That's exactly the way it works, honey. Feed them first, and the rest just follows right along." "Then let's not keep her waiting," Carol says, already on her feet, petticoats swishing.

There's half a tuna noodle casserole still sitting in Carol's icebox from yesterday's welcome, so you cut a generous square and wrap it in wax paper and tie it with string, the knot coming out of your fingers neat as a bow on a hatbox. Then the three of you set off up the street in a row — Carol's black heels, your red ones, Vivian's orange ones — clicking in time, pearls swinging, three smiles fixed at porch angle for the whole street to enjoy.

Ruthie Kessler's house is the one with the pamphlets stacked in the window and a lawn gone a little wild on purpose. You knock, dainty, twice.

Ruthie opens the door in corduroys and a flannel shirt, glasses pushed up into her graying curls, and her face does something complicated. Her eyes go from Vivian to Carol to you — to the champagne bob, the sailor dress, the red lipstick, the smile that never moves — and her mouth opens twice before sound comes out.

"Dana?" she says. "Oh my god. Dana, what — what happened to you? You look like — where are your—" Her voice drops. "You're wearing *pearls*."

"Ruthie, honey, we brought you a casserole!" you sing, holding out the wrapped square before the question can land anywhere.

"Tuna noodle. A welcome-to-the-neighborhood proper. It's just a *dream*."

"I've lived here nine years," Ruthie says slowly, taking it anyway, because refusing seems rude and her hands don't seem entirely her own around the wax paper. "Dana, talk to me. Are you okay? Is she—" and her eyes cut to Vivian.

"You just enjoy that now," you say, giggling, and the three of you turn in unison and click away down her walk, leaving Ruthie standing on her porch with the casserole, and the door closes behind her with a firm, thoughtful click.