"A HAT, A HAT, A BEAUTIFUL HAT,” she said, pulling me to the stands that sold baskets and other straw goods.

I felt some irrational primal resistance toward letting her buy me a hat, even though it was clear, or should have been clear, that this was the only way we would ever be able to move on with our lives. She picked up a wide-brimmed child’s hat with a ribbon, set it on my head, and started yanking down on the brim, trying to make it fit. “Hat,” she murmured under her breath in Hungarian.

Panic mounted in my body. “I DON’T NEED A HAT!” I shouted in Russian. Everyone turned to look at me. “You know what I like very much, is this,” I said, picking up a tiny misshapen basket.

“I didn’t know you liked baskets,” she said, a bit accusingly. She bought me the basket, and then a little stuffed basset hound that fit inside. The basset hound wore a tragic expression; a plastic heart glued to its front legs read I LOVE YOU in white script.