By midmorning the button shop had a little dish of mirrors on the counter, each no larger than a thumbnail. Buttons leaned toward them one at a time, checked their seating, and gave the nearest coat a small, serious nod.
We asked the keeper, who was polishing a brass shank with a cloth the size of a postage stamp. "They were getting shy," she said. "A button that has not seen itself will tug a little. A button that has nodded is ready for the street."
A note in the gratitude book, written in pencil so fine it might have been thread: "My navy wool waited by the door until every last one had looked. Then we all went out together."