Laura picked at the part in her hair, watching the mirror. That light threading of gray—there hadn’t been so much before the baby. She was thirty-two now, married eight years. She touched the faint creases at the corners of her eyes, thinking of her mother’s face. They had the same eyes—set wide, blue with a glimmer of yellow-green. "Coyote eyes," her grandmother had called them. Laura had her dead father’s long, straight nose and wide mouth, with an upper lip that fell a little short. Her front teeth were too big and square.