In my child's imagination they were counted, scrutinized. I agonized over how to proceed. I arrived at shaving crumbs from the back of each cookie with a butterknife that I would wash secretly in the tiny powder room, convinced someone would do a forensic test for cookie residue.

I never ate those last two cookies. I never had to grapple with an explanation or a means of disposing of the empty tin. So, in my mind, I still feel like I could just go back and find them.

4/