The girls’ only contact with the outside world was through the catalogues they ordered…The girls travelled in their imaginations; to gold-tipped Siamese temples or past an old man, the leaf broom tidying the maw carpeted speck of Japan. We ordered the same catalogues, and flipping through the pages, we hiked through passes with the girls, stopping every now and then to help them with their backpacks, placing our hands on their warm, moist shoulders, and gazing off at papaya sunsets. We drank tea with them in a water pavilion. We did whatever we wanted. And Cecilia hadn’t died. She was a bride in Calcutta.