THE VENDING MACHINE OF ALMOSTS

The machine appeared under the Pilgrim Street overpass every Thursday, between a broken payphone and a mural of a fish with human teeth. Its glass held no snacks. Instead, little paper boxes glowed with handwritten labels: THE CALL YOU ALMOST ANSWERED. THE TRAIN YOU ALMOST CAUGHT. THE APOLOGY STILL IN YOUR THROAT.

I knew this because one box had my sister Mara's handwriting on it. Mara had been gone for seventeen months. The box was labeled ONE MORE TUESDAY.

A coin slot clicked open. It was shaped exactly like the chipped silver ring I wore on a chain. The machine's fluorescent hum sounded, impossibly, like my sister laughing in another room.