It wouldn't be stealing, not really. There's a blue sticky dot on the back of the picture frame, with a capitol B, very clearly written in permanent marker, in a steady hand. B for Barney. Robin is his wife. He endowed her with all his worldly goods in front of God and the State of New York and everybody, including the now dearly departed Grandma Stinson -Mary; she'd asked Robin to call her Mary, the first time Robin offered her a swig from the flask in her purse- who would, undoubtedly, understand. It is, however, technically stealing, because she has no intention of actually giving the picture to Barney. This one is hers.

She could drop it into her purse, not the banker's box, also marked with a prominent B, that holds the other blue-stickered items. Everything is color-coded and marked with the proper initial, to ensure there will be no confusion. Blue dots with B are for Barney. Red dots with J are for James. Yellow dots with L are Loretta. Anything else has a green dot with a number that corresponds to the list on Sam's clipboard. No questions, no mistakes.

It's only the three of them in the room: Robin, Tom, and Sam, the spouses, one relation removed from the immediacy of the loss. Barney is at work, because he needs the logic and order of numbers and spreadsheets and mindless paperwork to balance the raw emotion. James and the kids are at the new Disney movie. They'll see it twice, because he needs to laugh, sing the songs along with the kids on the way home, make new memories. Loretta doesn't want to see anybody today; not Sam, not James, not Barney. She needs to be alone. Robin gets that. Respects it. The nursing home -no, Robin corrects herself, the private care facility; there's a difference- understands the family's loss, but they do need to turn over the room for the next occupant, and so the three of them are here, on a rainy Thursday afternoon, to take home what's left. Robin fluffs the pillow and smooths the case, out of habit. This is a new pillow. Mary's head never rested here. Robin gives the new pillow a pat anyway. It's ritual now.

She, Tom and Sam check in with each other -how their spouses are doing, how the kids are doing, how they're doing- while they strip the room and pass along appropriately-stickered objects. Tom passes her a hardcover biography of Harry Houdini , over the back of the chair Leslie's husband will pick up after three. Sam slides a battered pack of playing cards that look like a pack of Lucky Strikes across the bare mattress. Mary Stinson was a weird old lady. Kind of a badass, too. Robin is going to miss her, mostly for the Barney stories. She sets the book and the cards in the bottom of the box and moves on to the nightstand. Three romance novels: two old, with yellowed pages, one new, its pages crisp and white, all three with yellow dots on the spine. These are for Loretta. Robin stacks them and puts them in Sam's box, then moves on to the forest of picture frames that crowd the lamp and tissue box into a far corner.

The lacy white frame has Sam and Loretta's wedding picture; that's for Sam. Baby James grins a mile wide from a shiny gold frame, one rattle clutched in each fist. She passes that one to Tom, who smiles, shakes his head, and adds it to his box. Three photographs of other relatives, she stacks and puts aside for Sam to sort. The tarnished silver frame, she leaves for last, because, well, it's weird.

It's Barney, fresh out of the box. His face is red and squishy, blue eyes unfocused, mouth already at a half slant. He's about fifty percent forehead, with sticky-out ears and a floofy baby mohawk. His first outfit is yellow terrycloth, one of the white cuffs already patched, because James had it first. Blank slate Barney, before the world did anything to him. Before he did anything to it.

She traces over the shape of his head with the tip of one finger. She's glad she doesn't have to worry about squeezing one of those out of her lady parts, but she can't shut off the what if that always hits her every time she lays eyes on this picture. Not just the mental editing of the picture -though there is that; switch the yellow terrycloth for slate gray Egyptian cotton, darken the hair, pinch in the nose, maybe nudge the chin a little- but everything else that led up to the Barney she loves.

What if Mary hadn't thought this baby looked like her favorite uncle -who died in the war; Robin could never get more out of Mary than that- and offered to sign the house over to Loretta if she named the baby Barney, after him. Where would he have grown up if Loretta had named him Michael, like she'd planned before Mary pointed out the resemblance? What if Michael Stinson grew up somewhere else, into somebody else? She can't figure out if he would have been Mike or Mickey or always Michael, and she doesn't want to know. It's moot. He's Barney, her Barney, and this picture, that's where he started being Barney, and that's why she has to have it. She checks over her shoulder.

Tom and Sam's heads bend, together, over Sam's clipboard. Tom flips to the second page and points, she guesses, to a number. Sam adjusts his glasses, points to another one. Robin drops the picture into her purse. It's not stealing, not really.