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Chapter Text

Ethan had read the same sentence three times before he realized Jacob was waiting for him to move his foot. "Sorry." He pulled his heel off the empty stool. Jacob moved the stool back and set two plates beside the notebook. When Ethan reached for the nearer one, Jacob slid it away.

"That's yours. This one's hot."

"They're both plates."

"One's been next to the stove."

Ethan took the other one. The toast had gone dark along one edge, which was probably why Jacob had given him the piece with the larger amount of butter. He bit into it before looking back at the reading. Across the island, Jacob opened a drawer with his hip and searched through the things they kept putting in there because neither had found a better place. "Tape?"

"Under the scissors."

"The measuring tape."

"Oh. Behind the bread."

Jacob looked up. Ethan pointed with the toast, then moved his notebook before the crumb could land on the open page. Morning light reached across the kitchen in a pale rectangle that stopped just short of Jacob's feet. He was barefoot, wearing an old pair of shorts and a shirt whose collar had stretched enough to sit crooked. Ethan knew the shirt. Knowing it didn't seem to stop him looking. He went back to the sentence. It concerned a control group, not the man now standing between him and the refrigerator.

"Found it," Jacob said.

"Good."

The tape snapped back too quickly. Jacob winced and inspected his thumb.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I deserved that."

"Probably don't do it again."

Jacob gave him a look, smiling a little, and took the tape toward his room.

The sliding door was open. Ethan could see part of the desk and the corner of a folded shirt through the entrance, with the bed farther back against the brick. The room had existed long enough that he no longer mentally put the couch there when he looked at it. He had to make an effort to remember where the reading chair had stood before they'd moved it out. Now a charging cable curved beneath Jacob's desk, and a pair of shoes sat neatly together on the floor.

Chimney had asked for photographs of the partition on Sunday evening, after Ethan had finished the course enrollment. By the time Ethan saw the message, Jacob had already taken three. One of them included Ethan in the foreground holding Jee's drawing against the fridge, his mouth open around a question the photograph hadn't preserved. He'd asked Jacob to send that one too. He hadn't offered a reason.

From the other room came the scrape of a chair. "Don't move the desk yourself," Ethan said.

"I'm moving the chair."

"Okay."

"You can hear everything."

That was, according to Chimney's message, part of the point.

Ethan closed the reading long enough to check the time. He didn't have to leave until late morning. There was a response due before then, a small one he'd planned to finish last night before the calendar had taken longer than he'd expected. He'd eaten breakfast. He had coffee. The loft was quiet apart from Jacob doing something with a tape measure. None of that explained why he'd managed eighty words in twenty minutes. He put his phone facedown and started the paragraph again.

This time he found the problem in his own answer. He'd written as though the comparison accounted for a difference the authors hadn't actually controlled. The sentence sounded confident because he'd made it too broad. He deleted the end, went back to the figure, and began the slower work of making the explanation say what he meant.

Jacob came out of his room with the tape extended between his hands. "Is Chim coming before you leave?"

"That's what he said. Just to look. He's got somewhere else to be."

"Did he say what he wanted measured?"

"The opening, I think."

"The whole opening or the door?"

Ethan reached for his phone. "You know, there was a message about that."

"I sent him one. He hasn't seen it." Jacob lowered the tape. "Never mind. I'll wait."

He came back to the island and took his own plate. Ethan shifted the reading without being asked, leaving room on the counter beside him. Jacob sat on the stool instead of going around to the other side. His knee was an inch from Ethan's. The page remained open in front of them, the same light on the counter, and Ethan couldn't find the sentence he'd just been reading. He'd told a clearing full of people that he had feelings for Jacob. Here, Jacob was eating toast beside him, his hair flattened at the back and a pale line on his forearm from the edge of the desk. Ethan could ask about either of those things. He could reach for the coffee. He couldn't decide whether to let his knee move that last inch.

"How's it going?" Jacob asked.

"I've got to change this part."

"Want me to leave you alone?"

"No. I'm nearly there."

He wasn't, quite. He'd know whether he was nearly there once he stopped noticing everything beside him. He angled the screen away from the light, read the paragraph aloud under his breath, and heard the place where the conclusion still jumped ahead of the evidence. "That sounds wrong," he said.

Jacob was chewing. He waited.

"Not asking you. Sorry."

"Okay."

Ethan tried the sentence again. Jacob ate beside him, quiet without making the silence feel like a favor. After a while he got up for coffee and filled Ethan's cup when Ethan nudged it toward him. The ordinary ease of that settled something. Ethan finished the paragraph, checked it against the figure, and submitted before he could keep changing the wording until it stopped sounding like him.

"Done?"

"Yeah." He stretched his fingers. "I made that take a stupid amount of time."

"It's Monday."

"That doesn't explain the other six days."

Jacob laughed into his coffee. Ethan smiled at the notebook while he closed it.

He went to put the notebook in his bag and found the book he'd been looking for yesterday underneath it. The paper bookmark had slipped halfway out. He caught it before it fell and discovered he'd marked the wrong section anyway.

"That the one?" Jacob asked.

"Yeah. I thought I'd left it on campus."

"You asked me if I'd seen it."

"And you said no."

"I hadn't."

Ethan looked at the spot beside his own stool where it had apparently spent the night. "Fair." He opened to the section he actually needed. There was an old note in the margin, a question he'd written during the first week and could answer now. He crossed it out, then stopped because he still wanted to see what he'd asked. Beside it he added the answer in smaller writing.

Jacob got up to rinse his plate. Ethan could hear water running while he read the next page. This time he got through it, made a note, and moved on without looking toward the sink. "Can we leave the bedroom stuff till after your class?" Jacob asked.

Ethan lifted his head. "What stuff?"

"If Chimney wants to move anything to see the frame. I want to finish an application before lunch, and I don't want to be in the middle of it when we start moving the desk."

"Of course. We're only looking."

"Okay."

"You can tell him that too."

"I know." Jacob dried his hands. "I'm telling you because you're holding the measurements."

Ethan looked down. He'd picked up the tape without remembering doing it. He set it beside the empty plate. "Right. Sorry."

Jacob's expression softened. "I'm not worried."

"Good."

That mattered more than Ethan had expected. He didn't want a better room to become something Jacob had to accommodate before the work had even started. There were mornings when Ethan wanted his own things left exactly where he'd put them. Jacob could have those mornings too. He found the page he needed and put a fresh bookmark there before coming back to the rest of breakfast. Jacob had left him the chair with his notebook beside it, not moved everything to make the counter clear.

"You want the last bit?" Jacob asked, indicating the toast.

"Yeah."

He took it. Jacob returned to his coffee, one foot hooked around the stool rung. Ethan opened the book at the right page this time and managed another page.

The knock came while they were clearing breakfast. Jacob went to the door; Ethan took the plates, then had to set them down again because Chimney had brought a paper bag that needed catching.

"Your mother sent those."

Ethan looked inside. "There are six."

"She counted."

"I can tell."

"You're allowed to freeze them. She wanted me to say that before you decided this was breakfast." Chimney glanced at the toast plate. "Good. You already ate."

"Morning to you too."

Chimney pulled him into a brief one-armed hug on the way past. His hand landed between Ethan's shoulders, solid and familiar. Ethan leaned into it before stepping back to put the bag out of the sunlight.

Jacob had stayed near the open partition door. "Coffee?"

"If it's there."

"It's there."

"Then yes." Chimney set his own tape measure on the island. "How's the registration?"

"Paid. Uploaded. Waiting for someone to check the documents."

"And you're not checking every ten minutes."

"I checked when I got up."

Chimney looked at him over the cup Jacob handed him. Ethan held his gaze until he smiled.

"Okay. Show me this noise problem."

"It's not a problem," Jacob said, already moving toward the room. "It's just—" He stopped with his hand on the doorframe.

"You can hear everything," Ethan supplied.

"Yeah."

Chimney slid the door open and shut, then bent to look at the bottom without touching it. He asked before stepping into Jacob's room. Jacob moved the chair out of the way and showed him where the gap widened near the track.

Ethan stayed at the entrance. With two of them inside, there wasn't any reason to add himself to the space. He watched Jacob indicate a point along the partition, his palm turning toward the frosted upper panel. The movement pulled the shirt across his shoulders. Ethan looked down at the tape in Chimney's hand.

"Does it stick?" Chimney asked.

"A little at the end."

"Always?"

"More when it's hot." Jacob demonstrated. "There."

Chimney tried it himself, using less force. The door stopped just short of where it should have seated.

"Don't keep hauling on it. Have the installer check the track."

"I haven't been hauling."

"Good. Keep not hauling."

Jacob let go of the frame. "I was going to ask whether there's a better seal."

"There probably is. Whether it fits this system is the question." Chimney straightened, glanced at the upper edge, and took a photograph with Jacob's permission. "I'm not taking your wall apart to find out."

"Thank you," Ethan said.

"You say that like I brought a hammer."

Ethan looked toward the small tool bag just inside the front door.

"It's in the car," Chimney admitted.

Jacob laughed, and Chimney pointed at him without much conviction. Ethan felt the laugh in his own chest before he made a sound.

They measured the opening, then the door, because both answers turned out to be useful. Ethan held the paper while Chimney called out numbers. Jacob checked one of them after the tape shifted and got the same result the second time.

They had to be able to finish the partition without losing the route past the stairs or putting anything across the bathroom entrance. Chimney stood outside the bedroom and followed that path with his eyes before asking where Jacob wanted the desk once the work was done.

"Here, if it still fits," Jacob said.

"It ought to. I don't know how much the finished trim adds."

"We can move it a bit."

"We can measure first," Ethan said.

Jacob looked at him, then at the few inches beside the desk. "Yeah. That too."

Ethan wrote down the width. His handwriting became less legible when Chimney asked another question before he'd finished the number, and he had to cross it out and begin again.

"You've got time," Chimney said.

"I know." He put the pen down for a second. Jacob was watching, not the paper now but him. Ethan gave him a small smile to show he was fine, then wished he hadn't become so aware of what his mouth was doing.

Chimney turned toward the bed. "You sleeping all right in here?"

"Yeah." Jacob's answer came easily. "The room's good."

"I didn't ask you to review the room."

"I am sleeping."

"Okay." Chimney accepted that and looked toward the gap again. "Better seals might help with voices. You'll still hear some things. It's a loft."

"I know," Jacob said. "I'm not expecting silence."

Ethan knew what he could hear at night: the cupboard closing if Jacob wanted water, the short slide of the door, sometimes a laugh muffled too late when Christopher sent him something. Jacob could probably hear Ethan turn over above him, or drop the book he'd thought he could keep reading. They'd learned each other's quieter hours without discussing every sound. He wanted Jacob to sleep well. He also liked knowing when he was there.

"The panels stay," Chimney said, bringing him back. "We're looking at improving what you have. Seals, insulation where the system takes it, the finish."

Ethan nodded. "Good."

"And nobody buys anything until we know what actually fits."

Jacob lowered the phone he'd taken out. "I was opening the installation email."

"Excellent choice."

They went back to the island. Jacob found the contact information and sent it to Chimney, then showed him the original specification. Ethan put the measurements alongside it.

"I can help when we've got the right pieces," Chimney said. "But if they need to come out, let them come out."

"I can be here," Jacob said.

"Depending on work," Ethan added.

Jacob nodded. "Depending on work."

Chimney looked between them. "You hear something?"

"Not yet." Jacob turned the cup between his palms. "I don't want to say I'm free and then have to change it."

"Then we wait until the supplier answers," Chimney said. "Tell me when there's something to work around."

Jacob nodded. Ethan put the pen across the measurements so he wouldn't keep holding it.

Chimney checked his watch and finished the coffee. Before leaving, he inspected the muffin bag and took one out. "For the road."

"Does Mom know?" Ethan asked.

"Your mother sent me with seven."

Ethan laughed. Chimney squeezed the back of his neck on the way to the door, then reminded Jacob to send the supplier's reply when there was one. The tool bag left with him.

For a moment after the door closed, the loft felt especially quiet. Jacob picked up the cups while Ethan tried to find a dry place on the counter for the measurements. Jacob came around to reach the shelf behind him. Ethan shifted sideways and felt a warm hand briefly against his back. The hand left as Jacob put the cup away.

"You've got crumbs," Jacob said.

Ethan looked down at his shirt. "Where?"

Jacob touched his own collar to show him. Ethan brushed at the wrong side, then got it on the second try. Jacob smiled before turning back to the sink. Ethan watched him for another second. Then he collected the notebook and found the next page, still smiling faintly, as though there were anything in the reading to account for it.

The inspector put a small piece of blue tape beside the bathroom window and told Buck not to read too much into the color. "It's what I had in the bag."

"I wasn't." He had been, a little. Buck looked down at the notes on his phone and deleted the word he'd started typing.

"Can you show me again?" he asked.

The inspector, Elena, directed the light beneath the sill. "Here. This is the area I'll describe in the report. The repair record helps with what they say was done. I can tell you what's visible today. I can't certify what's behind a finished surface without opening it, and this isn't an invasive inspection."

"Right."

"There's no elevated reading at these points now. That doesn't establish what happens during rain."

He nodded and made himself finish listening before typing. They'd been in the house long enough for the initial excitement to wear down into the less comfortable feeling beneath it. He still liked the window in the living room. He still wanted the kitchen. He'd also paid someone to look at the parts he hadn't known to ask about, and she was finding them.

The agent waited in the hall, letting Elena work. She'd brought the additional repair documents Buck had requested. He'd seen them before the appointment, along with the consolidated terms that had finally arrived without three separate emails needed to explain them. Having the pages hadn't made the decisions easier. It had made the questions less vague.

"What would you do next about this?" he asked.

"I'd have a qualified window contractor assess the installation and the reported leak repair. I'll identify that recommendation clearly." Elena lowered the light. "Do you want me to show you the exterior point again before we move on?"

"Yeah. Please."

She did. Buck followed her outside and looked where she indicated, not where he'd expected the problem to be. He'd spent two visits watching the wrong seam. He didn't enjoy discovering that. He preferred it to buying the house without discovering it at all.

By the time they came back through the kitchen, his phone held photographs he would never have taken for Eddie: a label, a connection beneath the sink, a close view of a fitting whose position mattered more than how it looked. He kept them with his questions.

"You don't need to copy everything," she said when he paused over another note.

"I know. I forget what I meant if I just write 'kitchen.'"

"Then put enough to know which question you're asking."

He changed the heading. That helped. There were things he could understand readily: the loose handle, the door that scraped, an adjustment he might eventually make himself. For the rest, he noted the follow-up she recommended.

The electrical recommendation made him stop taking notes. "Before anybody lives here?"

"Have the electrician assess and correct it before occupancy. I wouldn't leave that one for later."

He looked at the outlet again. He'd photographed it during the first viewing without knowing enough about it to ask the right thing. "Okay. That goes on the first list."

The agent wrote it down too. Buck was glad she wasn't smiling at him now. He didn't need the room made appealing while someone was telling him how it needed to be made safe.

They moved through the bedrooms. Elena checked what was accessible, identified a window she wanted assessed along with the bathroom installation, and demonstrated the closet door's contact point when Buck asked. That was a smaller item.

In the larger bedroom, he stood back while she worked. The place where he'd imagined the dresser had a strip of brighter paint along the baseboard. With furniture in it, he probably wouldn't see the strip. Without furniture, it was remarkably easy to keep looking at it rather than listen to the next finding. He turned toward her. "Sorry. Say that last part again?"

She did, without impatience.

When Elena had packed away the equipment, they stood at the kitchen counter. Buck put his phone down so he'd stop looking between the screen and her face.

"The report will have the fuller description," Elena said. "Read it. Call if you need a finding explained."

"And the roof follow-up?"

She showed him the relevant photographs again. He'd need the recommended assessment and the repair documentation together. He could hear how much he wanted her to end with a sentence that made the choice safe. She gave him something he could do next.

"Okay," he said. "Send the report to me. I'll get those appointments arranged through her." He indicated the agent. "With the access they need."

Elena confirmed the expected timing, then asked whether there was anything from the walkthrough he wanted to revisit before she left. Buck checked his notes. She'd answered two of the five questions while he was typing the first. He crossed those out and asked the remaining three.

After she left, the agent stayed by the front door while Buck washed his hands. He'd touched less than he'd expected and still managed to collect dust along the side of his thumb. The kitchen faucet ran cool, then warmer. He dried his hands on the paper towel she offered and looked at the empty place where a refrigerator would stand. He had the measurements. He wasn't buying one today.

"Would you like a few minutes?" she asked.

"Yeah. If you've got them."

"I do."

She stepped into the living room to answer a call. Buck took his folder out of the bag and laid it flat on the island of counter he'd already mentally claimed for cooking. There wasn't an island, actually. Just a stretch long enough for a cutting board and the folder he kept putting there. Ethan's kitchen had an island. This one didn't have to. Buck opened the page of questions he'd made after speaking to the lawyer.

The rent-and-option arrangement was more understandable now. He could see what each payment did, what might be credited only if he eventually bought, what he could lose if he didn't, and which responsibilities remained with the owner while he rented. Clearer didn't mean preferable. The lawyer hadn't told him which home to want. She'd asked why he wanted this particular route to it. He'd given her the first answer that came to mind: because that was what had been offered. Then he'd had to sit with how incomplete it sounded.

He'd already done enough preliminary financing work during the search to know a purchase wasn't an impossible category. It still needed current figures for this house, the lender's process, the appraisal, all the things a hopeful number on a website didn't settle. Renting first had seemed gentler. Less like taking a whole decision in both hands. It also meant paying for an arrangement he might not need, then making the purchase decision again later.

The agent came back. "Any questions I can help with before I lock up?"

"The one I emailed yesterday."

"An outright purchase."

"If the inspection follow-ups work out. If the financing works."

"The seller is willing to consider an offer. We would need to agree the terms. Nothing in the rental proposal commits you to buying it that way."

"Right."

He'd read that answer already. Hearing it here, with the house around him, made him stop treating the rental proposal as a doorway he had to use simply because someone had opened it first. "I'd still want those assessments before we get too far," he said. "I'm not saying I'll take the problems because we change the paperwork."

"Understood."

"I need estimates. Not just somebody saying it's easy."

She nodded. "Once you have them, you can decide what you want to request. Repairs, a credit if appropriate, or not proceeding. Any agreement has to be in writing."

He set the legal notes beside the inspection list. The two pages didn't fit neatly together. They concerned different kinds of risk, neither of which he could fix by using the phrase 'my house' before it was true.

He opened the budget he'd made before the appointment. The down payment wasn't the whole cost. He'd kept closing costs, insurance for this property, taxes, and the reserve he wanted after the purchase on separate lines. Beside the repair heading, he'd left a blank.

"And if the seller says no to fixing something."

"Then you decide whether the remaining terms work for you. We don't have that answer yet."

He nodded. He wanted to be the kind of person who could hear no without immediately offering another way to make everyone pleased with him. A house was an expensive place to practice. It was also an expensive place not to. He changed the heading from repairs to estimates needed. The number stayed blank.

"You've got time to consider the report," she said.

"I know. I'm trying to use it."

He looked toward the hall. Eddie had stood there on Sunday with the questions folded into his pocket, willing to see what Buck liked without pretending that settled anything. Buck had wanted him to say yes. He'd also wanted him not to say yes just because Buck was asking. Now there wasn't anyone beside him whose expression he could check before making the next call. He could still call. That helped. He could also read the figure himself, find the line that bothered him, and ask a professional what it meant.

The agent's phone vibrated. She silenced it and waited.

"You can get that," Buck said. "I'm just looking at something."

"It can wait."

He finished checking the budget. There was enough room to keep asking questions. There might not be enough room for every answer. He saved the file without replacing the blank with a hopeful guess.

His stomach growled, loud in the empty kitchen. "Sorry."

"There's a place two streets over if you need lunch."

"I know the one."

He'd noticed it the first time he drove around here, then again coming back at a different hour to listen to the street. He could find a meal near the house without checking a map now. The realization pleased him in a quiet, ordinary way. He wanted to learn the rest of the neighborhood like that, one errand at a time.

"I want to talk to the lender again," he said. "With the actual purchase figure and the costs. Then have the lawyer look at the purchase documents too. Not assume the option review covers them."

"Of course."

"And I'm not giving notice anywhere until I know when I can actually take possession."

The agent smiled slightly. "That's sensible."

He didn't live somewhere that required a landlord's notice now. He lived with Eddie, in a space that had never stopped being a passage to somebody else's morning. The practical fact didn't erase the need to tell him. He wasn't going to move a bag out one day and call that communication.

He gathered the papers, then stopped. "Could I look outside once more?"

"Go ahead."

The yard was warmer than the house. Buck stepped down carefully, following the route Elena had taken around the side. He could see the bit of exterior she'd pointed out, and now couldn't unsee it. The orange tree stood beyond, untidier than it looked from the kitchen. He went toward it anyway. The branch still crossed the fence. He'd had an answer about who maintained the tree, finally, with a contact he could use if the sale happened. That was a small relief. He didn't need to learn everything by accidentally killing it.

One patch of ground beneath the leaves looked cool enough to stand in. He moved there, took out his phone, and saw the messages he'd ignored during the inspection.

Eddie had sent a photograph of a box with a corner crushed inward.

Eddie: They say nothing inside is damaged. We'll find out when it gets here.

Below that, sent later:

Eddie: How's yours going?

Buck looked back at the house. He could give a useful answer now. He typed slowly enough to keep himself from sending six messages that each corrected the last.

Buck: Inspection walk-through done. Report coming. Electrical correction before occupancy, window follow-up, roof assessment. Not a clean bill of health. Still interested.

He added another before Eddie could reply.

Buck: Seller will consider a straight purchase. I'm comparing that with the option. Need lender figures.

Eddie called. Buck answered with the phone to his ear, turning away from the fence so he wouldn't find himself talking toward the neighbor's kitchen. "Hey."

"Hey. You still there?"

"In the yard."

"How bad's the electrical?"

"I want to send you the report when I've got it. She explained it, but I'm going to say it wrong if I try from memory."

"Okay."

"Needs someone qualified. Before anybody moves in. I'm getting that in writing."

"Good."

Buck shifted his weight. The shade didn't reach his feet. "The rest's mixed. Some little stuff. Some things that need another person to look."

"You've got the names of who you need?"

"The kinds. I'm arranging it."

"All right."

A sound came down the line, a cupboard closing at Eddie's end. Buck could picture which one from the slightly loose catch. He'd fixed it once. It had loosened again. "How's Chris?" he asked.

"At school."

"I know. I meant this morning."

"Fine. He wanted to know if the tree passed."

Buck laughed. "That's a different inspection."

"I told him."

For a few seconds, he could hear the house at the other end. He hadn't expected to feel homesick standing in the yard of the place he wanted to buy. He didn't, exactly. He wanted to go back and tell them what had happened. That was different from wanting to sleep in the dining room forever. "I'm not trying to rush out," he said.

Eddie didn't answer immediately. "I didn't think you were."

"I know. Just—if I do this, I'm not—"

He stopped. A plane was beginning its approach overhead, the noise spreading before he could decide what to say next. "Hold on," he said. They waited. Buck watched the leaves move at the end of a branch. At its loudest, the aircraft drowned out whatever ordinary noise would have filled the yard. He could hear why the question mattered after a shift. He still didn't want to leave.

"That the planes?" Eddie asked when the noise fell away.

"Yeah."

"You've heard them a few times now."

"I have."

"Still want it?"

Buck looked at the back window, where the folder lay visible on the counter. "Yeah." The answer came with relief. "I want somewhere that's mine."

"Then keep finding out if this can be it."

Buck let his free hand fall from the back of his neck. "I'll send the report."

"After you've read it."

"Yeah."

"And eat something. You left before lunch."

He looked at the time. "How do you know?"

"You told me."

"Right. I did."

Eddie laughed softly. Buck smiled at the ground, said he'd see him later, and ended the call before he could turn the conversation into another request for permission.

Back inside, he drank the water the agent had left for him and looked at the living room without measuring it. The sunlight was shifting. From the place where he thought the couch might go, he could see the front door and part of the kitchen, not the bathroom finding or the roof photograph or the line he'd underlined in the option agreement. Those things still existed. So did the room.

Near the window, he paused to check the noise once more. A car passed outside; somebody shut a gate farther along the street. He could hear both. He could also hear the quieter room between them, unfamiliar now, and imagine getting used to the sounds without having to learn anyone else's schedule first.

He imagined leaving his keys near the entrance. Not a bag carefully zipped to keep everything together because it might need moving before dinner. A dish, maybe. One place he could reach without checking who else needed it.

He took out the borrowed pen he'd kept from the first showing and wrote beneath the inspection appointments: lender, purchase comparison, review. "I want to pursue the purchase route," he told the agent. "Subject to what comes back. Get me what I need for the next step, and we'll arrange access for the follow-ups."

"I'll send it."

"No move date yet."

"No move date," she agreed.

He put the papers away, checked the counter for anything he'd left, and stepped out ahead of her. The key remained in her hand. Buck looked back once while she locked the door, then put his own keys in his pocket and went to get lunch.

The first thing Ethan did after submitting the assignment was put a bowl over the part of the counter where he'd been working. It was an empty bowl. It didn't need to be there. It stopped him opening the laptop again while he was supposed to be making something May could eat with one hand and complain about with the other.

"You finished?" Jacob asked.

"Yes."

"You sound mad about it."

"I'm done looking at it."

Jacob glanced at the bowl, then at the closed computer beneath the overhang of the island. "Okay."

Ethan moved the laptop to the stairs before anything could spill. Friday afternoon had warmed the glass and the stone countertop; the loft held that warmth even with the blinds partly lowered. Outside, someone was reversing a truck with a beeper that seemed to pause just long enough for Ethan to think it had finished. He opened the lower terrace door and let the sound in properly.

There were four chairs at the table. Enough, provided they didn't leave anything on them. He brought in the bag of potting soil he'd meant to put away last weekend, lifted a dead leaf out of the corner by the door, and decided that counted as preparing the terrace.

When he came down the two steps, Jacob was at the sink washing peppers. "We doing the table out there?"

"Unless it gets too hot."

"It'll cool off."

"That's what I thought."

Ethan reached past him for the clean towel, and Jacob lifted his arm without looking up. The space opened. Ethan took what he needed and moved through it, then found himself thinking about the movement after it was over.

"What time did May say?"

"Around seven. She's got something to finish."

"And Ravi?"

"After. He said not to wait on dinner if he's late."

Jacob shut off the water. "Then we won't."

"I wasn't going to." They looked at each other. Ethan smiled first, caught, and Jacob went back to the peppers.

The evening had come together without much planning. May had asked whether Ethan was doing anything on Friday once her work was finished. He'd said there might be food if she came over; Jacob had asked Ravi, who had a book May wanted back and a reason to be on their side of town anyway. Four people. Their own table. Nobody bringing a child who needed a particular cup, no cooler to carry down to a beach, no drive home for either of them when everyone left. Ethan liked all of that more than the size of the plan seemed to justify.

He put music on low. Jacob rejected the first playlist from the other side of the kitchen.

"What?" Ethan asked.

"You've had that on all week."

"Not all week."

"I can hear it through the wall."

"That's getting fixed."

Jacob turned, knife resting flat on the board. "You could also change the music."

Ethan laughed and handed him the phone. The new song began halfway through a chorus Jacob apparently knew. He sang two words under his breath before noticing Ethan's attention and looking back at the cutting board. Ethan left the phone beside the speaker, suddenly wanting to hear him do it again.

He opened the refrigerator and stood there long enough for Jacob to ask what he needed. "The yogurt."

"Top shelf. Behind the jar."

"I see it." He hadn't, until Jacob said so.

They were making too much food. Ethan knew that by the time he'd put the second bowl on the counter, but some of it would keep and Ravi might be hungry enough to make the question irrelevant. There was bread, something to put on it, peppers for the oven, and a tray of potatoes that needed more room than Ethan had left.

Jacob looked at the tray. "Those won't cook evenly like that."

"They'll be fine."

"Ethan."

He looked. The potatoes were crowded in the middle, two layers deep where he'd tipped the bowl. "Okay. Second tray."

Jacob passed it to him without comment. Ethan divided them, found another spoon for the oil, and tried not to feel watched while he redistributed the pieces. Jacob was slicing peppers. The scrutiny was mostly his own. "I can do food, you know."

Jacob glanced up. "I ate your dinner Tuesday."

"You liked it."

"I did."

The simple answer took the resistance out of him. He shook the tray to spread the last pieces and put both in the oven.

Ethan mixed the sauce, tasted it, and held out a clean spoon. Jacob tasted it. His eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm thinking."

"You look like it's bad."

"It needs salt."

Ethan took the spoon back. "That's all?"

"That's all."

He added a little, stirred, and tasted again. Jacob was right. Annoyingly, uncomplicatedly right. Ethan put the bowl in the refrigerator and washed the spoon.

The counter began to clear as things moved toward being ready. Jacob stacked the boards by the sink, Ethan wiped the island, and they had one small collision when both reached for the towel. Jacob let go first. Ethan caught the whole thing against his chest.

"You can have it," Jacob said.

"I've noticed." He passed it back once the surface was dry. Their fingers didn't touch. Ethan noticed that too, which was becoming inconvenient.

"Ice," Jacob said a few minutes later.

Ethan opened the freezer. "There's some."

"Enough for everyone?"

He looked at the tray, then at the half-full bag behind it. "Probably."

Jacob came to look. "We can get another bag."

"May's not here yet."

"I meant I could go down."

Ethan checked the oven clock. There was time. There was also enough ice if neither of them planned on filling every glass to the top, and he knew he was about to turn an evening with three people he liked into a small catering operation. "Let's just put the drinks in the fridge," he said.

Jacob looked at the shelf they'd cleared. "Yeah. Okay."

They shifted the bowl of sauce, fit water and beer into the available space, and left the wine where it was. Ethan put the smaller glasses on the counter for anyone who didn't want to carry a bottle outside. Jacob checked that there were soft drinks too, then stopped when Ethan handed him one. "For now," Ethan said.

"Thanks."

When Jacob closed the refrigerator, Jee's drawing lifted at one corner. Ethan smoothed it beneath the magnet, careful of the waxy purple cloud. Jacob steadied the paper while he moved the magnet higher. Neither had to ask which way it went. There were other things on the door now, but they left the picture where Jee would see it if she came over.

They stood on opposite sides of the island drinking from the cans. The music had changed again. Ethan recognized the opening and tapped the beat with his thumb before he could decide whether he wanted to admit he liked Jacob's choice. Jacob noticed. He didn't say anything. That was almost worse.

"What did you do today?" Ethan asked.

"Apart from this?"

"Apart from saving the potatoes."

"Talked to Chris for a while. He sent something that wouldn't open."

"Did you fix it?"

"He fixed it. I told him where to look."

Jacob described the exchange, including the part where Christopher had apparently accused him of making the instructions complicated on purpose. Ethan laughed, hearing enough of Christopher in the retelling to know the accusation had been sincere for at least a second. "He's got plans tomorrow," Jacob added. "I told him to text if he needs me, but he probably won't."

"You doing something together?"

"Not this time. His own thing."

Ethan nodded. Jacob didn't elaborate, and he didn't ask. He liked that they had things he wasn't part of, even when he was curious.

His own phone lit with a photograph Tyler had sent earlier: something broken, held together badly enough that the caption insisted it was temporary. Ethan showed Jacob. They disagreed about whether it would survive the weekend, then Ethan sent his brother a reply that would almost certainly start an argument.

He was still smiling when the answer arrived. "He says he knows what he's doing."

Jacob studied the photograph again. "Does he?"

"Sometimes."

They laughed, and the remaining preparations stopped feeling like a series of things Ethan could get wrong. He put the can down, turned the phone over, and let the music continue while Jacob finished what he'd been telling him.

For a while they worked at opposite ends of the room. Jacob went to put something away in his bedroom; Ethan carried glasses up the two steps and set them on the terrace table. He moved one because it sat in direct sun. Then another, because four people weren't going to sit down at the exact moment he'd arranged for. He stopped adjusting them.

Beyond the railing, the city was continuing with Friday. Windows caught the light. A car horn sounded, cut short. Somebody on a neighboring balcony laughed with their whole body, the sound carrying up and away before the next line reached him.

He'd lived here alone before Jacob. He remembered eating outside with a book open beside the plate, taking a photograph of the sky because it seemed wasteful not to send it to someone, then choosing a person after he'd taken it. The apartment had been his. He'd worked hard to make it feel that way. It still was. He liked it better with a second pair of shoes near the entrance.

"Plates now or when the food's ready?" Jacob asked from inside.

Ethan turned. Through the open door he could see him holding a small stack, the four plates braced against one broad palm. "Now's fine."

Jacob came up the steps. Ethan moved a chair back with his foot to let him past, then took half the plates.

"Thanks."

They set them down. Jacob looked at the potting soil bag just inside the door. "That's where it went."

"I'm dealing with it."

"By moving it six feet?"

Ethan said, "For tonight." Jacob laughed. He didn't pick up the bag and put it somewhere more sensible. Ethan was oddly glad of that. He could move his own dirt.

They stood beside the table with nothing left in their hands. Across the street, the windows were turning the sky back at them; the light caught the reddish ends of Jacob's hair and left the other side of his face in shadow. Ethan had spent the afternoon passing him things, asking where something went, finding one more reason to stand beside him. Now the four plates were on the table and the oven was doing the part that didn't need either of them. Jacob looked out at the next building. Ethan wanted him to turn back. He wanted something to happen that he wouldn't have to explain as reaching for a towel.

"You want to sit out here later?" Ethan asked.

Jacob turned. "Yeah. Isn't that the plan?"

"I meant after food."

"Sure."

Ethan had meant after May and Ravi left. He looked at the chair beside his, then back at Jacob. His phone rang inside, and he went to get it.

May was calling. He put her on speaker because his hands still smelled faintly of garlic and he didn't want it on the phone. "Hey."

"Please tell me I don't have to make a decision about food."

"You don't."

"Good. I've made enough."

"Everything okay?"

"Yes. I'm staring at a paragraph I hate. I need to stop fixing it before it turns into a different assignment."

Ethan looked at his laptop on the stairs. "That sounds familiar."

"Have you finished yours?"

"Yes."

"Actually finished or waiting for me to tell you to stop?"

"Submitted."

"Oh, you're ahead of me."

Jacob came down from the terrace, carrying the extra spoon Ethan had left on the table. He heard May's voice and lifted his head. "Hi, May."

"Hi. Is he making a lot of food?"

"We both are."

"Good. I had a very disappointing lunch."

Ethan smiled. "What happened?"

"I packed it yesterday and forgot I'd packed it. So I bought lunch. Then I found the first one."

"That sounds like two lunches."

"It wasn't a good sandwich to begin with. Time didn't help."

Jacob made a sympathetic sound. Ethan moved the phone farther from the edge of the island.

May asked whether Ravi was still coming. Ethan said yes, a little later, and she remembered the book.

"Tell him I don't need notes in the margins this time."

"I don't think he's going to let me tell him how to read."

"They're in pencil. He says that like I can't still see them."

"You lent it to him," Jacob said.

"I'm aware." Her voice warmed. "I'll see you around seven. Don't make a separate thing because I said I'm hungry."

Ethan looked at the two trays in the oven. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Mm-hm."

After she hung up, Jacob took his phone out and sent Ravi something. Ethan didn't ask to see it. He could hear the shape of their friendship in the brief laugh Jacob gave at the answer, then in the words he chose to share. "He's bringing the book. He says the notes improve it."

"She's going to love that."

"I told him."

Jacob kept reading for a moment, thumb moving across the screen. Ethan turned the potatoes. The edges were beginning to catch the way he'd wanted. He let the oven heat his face for another second before closing it.

They had nearly an hour. Too much time to keep cooking and not quite enough to begin anything he'd resent having to stop. He wiped the counters again, then noticed Jacob watching the towel.

"What?"

"You already did that bit."

Ethan looked down. "I know."

"Okay."

He put the towel away.

Jacob went to change his shirt. Ethan stayed in the kitchen, checking the food once, then made himself go upstairs and do the same. He could see the living room from the railing: the blanket folded over the sofa, the bowl he'd used as an obstacle now waiting to hold bread, the paper with the partition measurements held beneath a mug so it wouldn't drift into the cooking.

They'd spoken to the supplier. There would be a visit, a decision about what the existing frame could take, materials before anybody committed to a finish date. Chimney had sent a message with three question marks after Jacob suggested he could clear the room himself. Jacob had replied that he meant the small things.

Ethan liked being included in the exchange, and hearing Jacob talk about how he wanted the room. Ethan changed into a clean shirt, then changed back when he realized the first one was fine and he was making a decision out of something that didn't require one. Downstairs, a cupboard closed. Jacob called up to ask where the unopened crackers were.

"Behind the oats."

"Why?"

Ethan said, "They fit." There was a pause, then Jacob laughed. Ethan leaned a forearm on the railing and looked down. He could see him at the cupboard, reaching behind the container exactly where Ethan had said. For some reason, that was the moment that made his chest feel full.

He went downstairs before he could stay there observing his own kitchen like a visitor. Jacob had put on a dark green shirt. It was familiar too. Ethan liked it on him enough to be annoyed with himself for knowing that immediately. "What?" Jacob asked.

"Nothing. You got them."

Jacob held up the box. "Behind the oats."

"Told you."

He took the crackers and found the smaller plate. Their shoulders brushed as Jacob moved around him, a comfortable contact that Ethan could have left entirely alone if his body hadn't become so interested in keeping track.

The buzzer sounded while he was putting the last pieces of bread in the bowl. Jacob reached it first, asked who it was, and let May in.

Ethan carried the bread toward the terrace, then turned back because he'd forgotten the napkins. Jacob was already holding them out. Ethan said, "Thanks."

"Yeah."

He took them. Their fingers touched briefly, and Ethan looked up to find Jacob smiling at him. For a second Ethan forgot that somebody was coming up the stairs outside. Then there was a knock at the front door, and Jacob turned to open it.

Ethan set the napkins beside the four plates. Behind him, May greeted Jacob, her voice carrying through the open terrace door. He turned toward them, still feeling Jacob's fingers against his. By the time he reached the kitchen, May had begun telling them about the trip over, and Ethan had to wait for a place in the conversation like somebody who hadn't just forgotten there would be anybody else in the room.

May held her bag out before Jacob had finished opening the door. "Please put that somewhere I can't see it."

He took it. "Bad day?"

"Long paragraph."

"Same one?" Ethan asked from behind him.

"It's submitted. Nobody ask me anything about it." She stepped inside, looked toward the kitchen, and let out a breath. "Oh, that smells good."

Jacob put the bag on the chair by the record storage, far enough back that it wouldn't slide into the walkway. When he turned around, Ethan was already holding a glass of water out to her. May took it, drank half, and followed him to the oven. It was easy, having her here. Jacob closed the door, moved the crackers away from the stove, and listened while she asked Ethan what was ready and he answered with considerably more information than the question needed.

"So yes," she said.

"Yes."

"Great. I'm starting with that." She took a piece of bread, bent over the counter to catch the crumbs, and closed her eyes briefly as she chewed. Ethan looked pleased before turning away to find the serving spoon. Jacob passed it to him.

"Thanks."

He'd had it in his hand already. Jacob went to check that they hadn't left the soft drinks behind the food, then got May another piece of bread because she was looking at the plate.

They took what was ready out to the terrace. Ethan went first with the hot tray; Jacob followed with the rest, waited at the bottom of the two steps until he could pass safely, and set the bowl beside May's water. The air outside was losing its heat. A breeze reached them between the buildings, strong enough to lift a napkin before May caught it beneath her glass. "I can do that," she said as Ethan turned back for something else.

"It's just the sauce."

"Then I can definitely do it."

He let her. Jacob sat down, took the bottle Ethan had set beside his plate, and waited until he could open it without pointing the cap toward anyone.

May came back with the bowl and her phone. "Ravi says another twenty minutes. He's picked something up before coming over."

"He told us to start," Jacob said.

"Then we should listen."

Ethan sat beside him. The table was small enough that he could reach across it for anything he wanted. He still passed things rather than stretch over their plates, caught the end of May's story while giving Jacob the bread, and made a face at the part where she described the chair she'd spent the afternoon in. "You know the one," she said.

"The one that goes down?"

"While you're sitting on it."

"Yeah. I moved."

"I'd already plugged everything in."

Jacob laughed at the resignation in her voice. She'd stayed in a bad chair for almost two hours rather than surrender a working outlet, then discovered the person beside her was using the second socket for a phone that had been fully charged since she arrived. "Did you ask?" he said.

"Eventually. He was nice about it. Which was annoying, because I'd already decided he wasn't."

"I've done that," Ethan admitted.

"You both look very rested." May pointed her fork between them. "I don't like it."

"I took a nap," Jacob said.

Ethan turned. "When?"

"Before you got back."

"I was wondering why the room was dark."

Jacob said, "Because I was asleep." Ethan smiled down at his plate. It wasn't much of a joke, but Jacob liked having made him smile. He took a drink to give himself something else to do.

They talked about work that gave no sign it was finished. May had spent half the afternoon removing an argument from her paper because it didn't belong there, which left fewer words for considerably more effort. Ethan described revising a response until he could no longer remember what had been wrong with the first version. Jacob liked hearing them disagree about whether the reading had been badly written or only difficult. May thought those were different complaints. Ethan said that didn't stop it being both. May found the sentence she'd saved on her phone. "Participants were not excluded if they had failed to complete fewer than two of the preliminary tasks," she read.

Jacob finished his mouthful. "You could miss one," he said. "They'd still keep you in."

"Oh," Ethan said.

May looked at her phone again. "I hate that that makes sense."

Jacob grinned. "Sorry."

"Don't be. Now I can be mad at the right thing."

The buzzer sounded inside. Jacob got up before Ethan could put his fork down, opened the terrace door wider so it wouldn't catch on him, and went to let Ravi in.

Ravi arrived carrying a book, a small bag, and the expression of somebody who had misjudged how hungry he was until he smelled dinner. "Did I miss everything?"

"No. Come on."

"I brought the thing May asked for." Ravi held up the book. "And these. I didn't know if you needed anything."

The bag contained something sweet from the place he'd stopped on the way. Jacob thanked him, moved it away from the warm trays, and handed him a plate. Ravi looked around the kitchen before following him outside. "You changed something."

"We put the bag of soil away."

"That's probably not it."

Jacob laughed. "Nothing's changed. There's food on the counter."

"That'll be it."

Ravi took the empty chair. May accepted the book, opened it immediately, and found a folded receipt marking the page. "You haven't finished."

"I thought you needed it back."

"I said bring it so I can show you the part you keep arguing about."

"Then I'm going to need that receipt."

She gave it back, keeping the book. Ethan offered him wine. Ravi shook his head and asked for the ginger ale instead; he'd driven, had something to do in the morning, and wanted a drink he didn't have to think about. Jacob passed it across. Ethan got him a glass without asking whether he wanted ice.

Ravi ate first. May let him get several bites in before turning the book toward him. Jacob listened while they located the passage, and then while Ravi explained that his objection wasn't to what the character did but to the author apparently expecting him not to notice.

"You're meant to notice," May said.

"Then why does nobody in the book notice?"

"Because they want something from him."

Ravi considered that, took another bite, and asked her to read the paragraph above it.

She did. Ethan leaned closer to hear. Jacob watched his face as he listened, the small concentration line between his eyebrows and the way he stopped chewing until May reached the end. "Wait," Ethan said. "Go back to the first sentence."

May did, less patiently this time. He pointed at the page without touching it, asked a question, and got both of them talking at once.

Jacob sat back and drank his beer. He didn't know the book. He liked the conversation anyway, especially the part where Ravi admitted he'd probably missed something and then refused to surrender the larger complaint. May found the pencil mark in the margin and read it aloud: He's full of shit. Ethan laughed with his head tipped back. Jacob looked directly at him and didn't move his attention quickly enough when Ethan looked back.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You haven't even read it."

Jacob said, "I can still enjoy this." Ethan's smile widened. He nudged Jacob's knee beneath the table, a brief acknowledgment that stayed warm after he moved away. Jacob looked at his plate.

Dinner stretched. Ravi went back for more food, and Ethan asked him to bring the smaller bowl so he could put the rest away before it sat out too long. Jacob got up with him. In the kitchen, Ravi asked which container belonged with which lid, and Jacob had to take two down before finding the right one.

"You live here," Ravi said.

"I know. There are too many."

"My cupboard does that."

"What?"

"Makes lids."

Jacob laughed, then found the one he needed. They put the food away and took the open wine outside. He'd finished the beer without particularly noticing. When Ethan asked whether he wanted a glass, he said yes.

The light went while they were talking about Ravi's apartment. Someone needed access for a repair, which meant a morning appointment that had already moved twice. Ravi wanted it done. He also wanted not to lose another free morning waiting for somebody who might call at ten to say they couldn't come.

"Can they give you a smaller window?" May asked.

"They can give me one. Whether they arrive in it is different."

"Get the time in writing," she said.

"I have it in writing. Two different times."

Ethan made a sympathetic noise. Jacob asked what needed fixing, and Ravi described the problem well enough that Jacob almost began offering suggestions before remembering Ravi hadn't asked him to repair his apartment. "That sounds annoying."

"It is. I'd still rather they did it."

"Yeah."

Ravi told them about the first place he'd rented and a neighbor who'd complained whenever he used the stairs. May had a story about an argument over a washing machine. Ethan began one about a laundry room at Yale, got distracted explaining how he'd ended up there at two in the morning, and had to be reminded what the original story was. Jacob knew the route back to it. He waited until Ethan looked at him, then said, "The dryer."

"Right. Thank you."

Ethan touched his forearm as he said it. Jacob rested his hand on the table instead of moving it away. The contact lasted less than a second; Ethan was already back in the story, smiling at May, while Jacob could still feel exactly where his fingers had been. He missed the end. When May asked a question, Ravi began laughing before Ethan answered, and Jacob joined them late. He wanted Ethan to touch him again. He looked out across the railing rather than risk Ethan catching it on his face.

The windows opposite had become lit rectangles while they'd been sitting there. Somebody moved through a kitchen with a plate in one hand, visible for a second before passing out of the light. Jacob could feel the wine warming him now. He finished what was in his glass, drank water, and waited through another turn of the conversation before reaching for the bottle again.

"You cold?" Ethan asked.

"No."

"You've got your arms like that."

He looked down. He'd folded them without realizing it. "I'm comfortable."

"Okay." Ethan settled back. His own glass stood nearly empty beside the plate. There was a patch of warmth across his cheeks and his voice had grown a little louder, his story beginning before he'd finished laughing at the previous one. Jacob liked him this way. He liked him quiet over a difficult page too. It was getting harder to find a version of Ethan he didn't want more time with.

The conversation wandered toward the weekend. May was trying to arrange an afternoon with a friend who kept proposing things that began at nine in the morning. She wanted to go. She also wanted one day when she didn't have to decide what to wear before she'd had coffee.

"Tell her that," Ethan said.

"I did. Now she's sending me places with coffee."

Ravi laughed. "That's a pretty good answer."

"It is. I'm annoyed with how good it is." May moved her napkin beneath the plate. "I might just say yes."

Jacob asked what they'd planned. She showed him the list: a market, a place her friend wanted to photograph, somewhere to eat afterward that would require more travel than either of them was admitting. He liked the look of the market. Ethan leaned over his arm to see the screen, read the hours, and told her which day she'd actually selected.

"Oh." She took the phone back. "That explains the message."

"What message?"

"She asked whether I'd looked."

They laughed. May sent a reply without trying to defend herself, then put the phone away.

Ravi wanted a quiet part of his weekend back once the repair was done. He'd started a film earlier in the week and stopped it because he couldn't keep his eyes open. Now he needed to begin again and didn't want anyone telling him he'd missed the important part.

Ethan asked which one. He knew it, or thought he did, until Ravi described the opening and Ethan realized he was thinking of a different film with an actor who wasn't in either of them. "Never mind," Ethan said.

"You sounded very sure," May told him.

Ethan said, "I was, for a minute." Jacob was laughing too hard to help. Ethan looked at him and began laughing again instead of pretending to be offended. For a few seconds the table had no conversation, only the shared effort of stopping before somebody started the others off.

When they settled, Ravi asked Jacob what he watched when he wasn't studying. Jacob named two things, then admitted most of his recent free time had gone into a game he'd already played before. He'd changed enough of it to break the save and spent an evening fixing a problem he'd created himself.

"Did you finish?" May asked.

"Fixing it, yeah."

"Playing."

"No. By then I had to go to bed."

Ethan put his hand over his mouth. Jacob looked at him. "You were very quiet that night," Ethan said.

"I was concentrating."

"I know. You came out and looked in the fridge without taking anything."

Jacob remembered doing it. He hadn't known Ethan had noticed. "I needed a minute."

"You shut it very carefully."

That made May laugh. Jacob laughed too, a little embarrassed but pleased at the small, accurate recollection. Ethan had been on the sofa with a book. He could picture him there now, looking up long enough to see Jacob standing at the refrigerator and not asking what he was supposed to be doing. He liked being known in these useless little ways.

He reached for his water, found Ethan's glass nearer his hand, and passed it to him before taking his own. Ethan accepted it without breaking off what he was telling Ravi. His fingers brushed Jacob's, and Jacob stayed turned toward him after the glass had moved.

May asked Jacob about the game he'd mentioned the week before. He answered, then drew Ravi into the explanation because Ravi had actually played the older version and could tell her which part Jacob was making sound less complicated than it was. That became the next half hour. No one agreed about the controls. May wanted to know whether they could try it without spending the evening being taught what each button did. Ethan admitted he was better at talking than playing and immediately objected when Jacob agreed too quickly.

"You watched me once."

"I've watched you several times."

"On different games."

"Yes."

May laughed at the face Ethan made. Jacob didn't add anything. He was busy trying not to look too pleased when Ethan's foot found his beneath the table.

This time it stayed there.

It might have been the position of the chair. Ethan was turned toward May, knees angled away from the table leg. Jacob knew that. He also knew how easy it would be to move his own foot and decided not to.

They cleared the dishes when the breeze began to feel cooler against their arms. May stacked the plates, Ravi carried the heavier bowl, and Ethan protested that they were guests while taking the stack because he knew she'd bring it in anyway.

Jacob reached for the remaining glasses. Ethan caught his wrist lightly. "I've got those."

"I can carry two glasses."

"You've got the bottle."

He did. Jacob looked down at his occupied hand, then at Ethan, who was smiling openly now. "Okay," Jacob said.

Ethan let go. Jacob followed him in through the terrace door, close enough to see where the curls at his neck had begun to loosen. He nearly put a hand there, not to guide him or take something or make room. Just because he wanted to. He carried the bottle down the steps instead.

Inside, Ravi was attempting to connect the controller while May stood beside him reading the instructions he'd insisted he didn't need. Ethan put the glasses on the island, looked back at Jacob, and rolled his eyes so faintly that nobody else could have seen it.

Jacob smiled at him. He didn't bother making it smaller.

There was room on the sofa beside Ethan when they finally sat. Jacob took it. The cushions gave beneath his weight, bringing Ethan a little closer, and Ethan shifted only enough to let him settle.

May handed Jacob the spare controller without interrupting her complaint about the menu. He took it, rested his forearms on his thighs, and began explaining the part she'd asked about.

Ethan leaned over to see which button he meant. His shoulder pressed against Jacob's upper arm. Jacob kept talking, though he had to begin the sentence again.

Ethan was certain he'd pressed the right button until the figure on the screen went straight past the door. "No. Wait."

Beside him, Jacob began to laugh.

"I know what I did."

"Then why are you still doing it?" May asked.

"Because I'm trying to get back."

His character disappeared from the edge of the platform. Ravi made a small, sympathetic sound that Ethan found considerably more insulting than Jacob laughing into his own shoulder. "You could've warned me."

"I did," Ravi said.

Ethan looked at him. He remembered a warning, now that Ravi mentioned it. It had arrived during Ethan's explanation of why he didn't need one. "Fine. Again."

May passed him her glass of water to move out of the way, then took his controller. "My turn."

He surrendered it reluctantly and settled back against the sofa. Jacob was warm beside him, still smiling. Their shoulders had been touching long enough that Ethan noticed the cool air only when Jacob leaned forward to put his own controller down. Ethan said, "You're enjoying this."

"I'm having a nice time."

Ethan said, "Not the same thing." Jacob looked at him, eyes bright, and Ethan couldn't keep the offended expression in place. He laughed, picked up his wine, and drank the last mouthful before setting the glass on the table.

The game had seemed straightforward when Jacob explained it. It was, if Ethan stopped trying to do the thing he thought ought to work and listened to what the controls actually did. May was better at that. She waited through the prompt, moved slowly once, then began making progress while Ethan watched with an unfair amount of resentment. "You can stop looking like that," she told him.

"I'm supporting you."

"You're breathing very loudly."

Ravi laughed from the chair. Ethan threw a cushion at his knees, missed, and had to get up to retrieve it when it landed beside May's bag. The floor felt farther away than he'd expected. He straightened with one hand on the back of the sofa and waited a moment before turning around. He'd eaten. He'd just been sitting for a long time. He was also past the point where another glass would be a sensible way to prove he was fine. He got water instead. "Anyone?" he asked, lifting the pitcher.

May held her glass out without taking her eyes off the screen. Ravi said yes. Jacob turned his head against the sofa back. "Please."

Ethan filled his glass last. When Jacob took it, his thumb rested briefly beside Ethan's, broad and warm against the cold surface. Ethan watched the hand for a second too long.

Jacob said, "Thanks," more quietly than the room needed.

Ethan went back to the sofa. This time he sat closer without waiting for the cushions to decide it for him. The evening had lost its edges. There had been dinner, then the book, then a conversation about work, and now May was telling him he'd made her miss a jump by talking. He couldn't quite place when he'd stopped wondering whether everyone was enjoying themselves. They were. Nobody needed him to make the next part happen. He let his knee rest against Jacob's and watched May finish the section he hadn't.

"There," she said.

"I see it."

"Do you?"

He leaned across Jacob to get the spare controller from the table. Jacob's hand settled at his side for balance, not gripping, just there while Ethan's weight was awkward. He could have taken the controller from another angle. He knew that after he'd already sat back. The hand left. Ethan had to listen harder to hear what Ravi was saying.

They played another round. He did better. Jacob made an error of his own and laughed so abruptly that May looked over from the floor to check what she'd missed. Ethan pointed at the screen, pleased to have evidence of something. "See?"

"I saw," Jacob said, still laughing.

"You went right past it."

"I know."

Ethan pressed his shoulder into him. Jacob returned the pressure instead of moving away, heavy enough that Ethan had to brace a foot against the rug. He laughed and pushed back with no prospect of shifting him.

"Both of you," May said.

They stopped. Jacob stayed where he was. Ethan did too. The warmth of the contact was getting difficult to ignore and easier, somehow, not to defend himself against.

They changed the game mode because May wanted to try the part that required them to work together. Ethan thought that might make it easier. Within two minutes he'd discovered they could be very effective at getting in each other's way. "I'm holding it," he said.

"You have to keep holding it," Ravi told him.

"I am."

On the screen, the gate closed. May turned to look at him.

"I thought you'd gone through."

"I was standing right there."

"Your person. Not you."

Jacob made a helpless sound beside him. Ethan tried the switch again, missed it, and started laughing hard enough that he couldn't see what he was doing. They failed the section. This time nobody blamed anyone because they'd each managed to contribute something. Ravi had gone the wrong way while explaining the correct route. Jacob had followed him. May had waited where they'd told her to wait and discovered it was apparently the least useful place on the screen.

"We can do that," she said.

Ethan liked the determination in her voice. He sat forward, put his glass beyond his elbow, and listened properly. The next attempt went better. He held the switch until May told him she was through, moved when Jacob asked him to, and made one jump he hadn't expected to manage. Jacob's hand landed briefly on his knee in congratulations. Ethan almost missed the next one.

They reached the end with Ravi talking them through the final turn and May telling him to stop talking while she concentrated. When the success screen appeared, Ethan lifted both hands before remembering the controller was still in one of them. Jacob caught the cable before it pulled against the table.

"Sorry."

"You're fine."

May leaned back against the sofa below them, satisfied. Ravi asked whether they wanted to attempt another level, then took one look at Ethan's expression and said they should probably stop while they had evidence it was possible. Ethan would have argued if Jacob hadn't been laughing again. He put the controller down and let himself enjoy having finished something with people he liked.

They ate what Ravi had brought after that. Lemon bars, cut unevenly enough that May inspected the pieces before choosing. Ethan took a plate to the kitchen because the sugar was getting everywhere, came back with napkins, and found Jacob had saved him the piece with the corner. "You like that bit," Jacob said.

"I do." He took it. The tartness surprised him after the wine. He made a face, then finished it while May asked Ravi where he'd bought them. Ethan could feel sugar on the side of his thumb. He went to wipe it, found Jacob holding out a napkin, and laughed under his breath before taking it. He wiped his thumb, still smiling when Jacob turned back toward the others.

They sat for a few minutes without starting anything else. Ravi brought the plates from the lemon bars to the kitchen. Jacob gathered the empty bottles around the sofa and set them beside the sink, more of them than Ethan had registered while they were passing controllers back and forth. Ethan had finished a beer during the first game, then gone back to the wine. His glass was empty again. Jacob had poured himself whiskey as well, a short glass he'd taken his time over. Ethan could see it on the counter now, empty except for the last of the melting ice.

"Leave that," Ethan said when Jacob reached for another plate. "Come and sit down."

Jacob looked over. "I'm just clearing these."

Ethan said, "I know. You can sit." Jacob came back, smiling, and Ethan moved the cushion out of his way. When Jacob settled, his thigh touched Ethan's from hip to knee. Ethan let himself lean into the contact instead of making the small adjustment that would have put space between them.

May was telling Ravi about the market. Jacob listened, added a question, and laughed at her answer. Ethan sat beside him and felt absurdly pleased that asking him to stay had been enough.

Ravi's phone lit. He checked it, put it away, and said he ought to head home.

"Early start?" Ethan asked.

"The repair window. Supposedly."

May looked over. "Tomorrow?"

"Unless they change it before I get there."

"You live there."

"I mean before they get there." Ravi rubbed his face. "I've been talking about it too much."

They laughed. He accepted that, stretched his legs, and asked whether anyone had seen the receipt from the book.

May had put it back between the pages. She brought him the book, then kept hold of it long enough to point out the place she wanted him to reread. "You're going to finish it," she said.

"I was always going to finish it."

"And then you can complain properly."

"I'm already doing all right."

She let go, smiling. Ethan was glad they could be friends in his living room.

May checked the time and ordered a car. Ravi offered to drop her, but she was going in the other direction and didn't want to make him add another journey. She had a morning plan of her own, breakfast with somebody from class followed by the work she'd promised herself she wouldn't think about tonight.

"You'll think about it," Ethan said.

"Probably. But I won't have the bag."

He looked toward the chair. "You're taking it."

"I know. I was enjoying not knowing where it was."

Jacob got up and brought it to her. Ethan watched him bend for it, the green shirt pulling across his back, and looked at the television when he straightened.

"You want food?" Jacob asked Ravi.

"I ate a lot."

"For tomorrow."

Ravi considered that. "If there's some."

"There's some," Ethan said. He went to get a container. Jacob met him at the refrigerator, already holding the one with the potatoes. They nearly bumped heads reaching for the same shelf. Ethan laughed, put a hand against Jacob's chest to stop himself getting closer, and left it there while Jacob moved the bowl. The shirt was soft beneath his palm. Under it, Jacob was solid and warm.

"This one?" Jacob asked.

Ethan looked at the container. "Yeah." He took his hand away to find the lid.

They packed enough for Ravi without turning the whole refrigerator into a farewell gift. May accepted some bread and the last of the sauce, provided Ethan promised he wasn't giving away their breakfast. He told her there were eggs. Jacob added that there were muffins. Ethan had forgotten about the freezer, which made him laugh again for no particularly good reason.

"You all right?" May asked.

"Yeah. I forgot the muffins."

She looked at him, then smiled and reached for the bag with her food. "Okay."

He hugged her at the door. She held him a little tighter before letting go, told him to leave the dishes for ten minutes if he wanted, and turned to Jacob.

"Thanks for dinner."

"Thanks for coming."

"Send me that thing."

"The game?"

"The one I can play on the laptop."

"I will."

Ravi lifted the book and the food in acknowledgment because both hands were full. Ethan walked them as far as the open doorway, watched May check the approaching car, and told them to let somebody know they got home.

"You too," Ravi said, then caught himself and laughed.

"I'll do my best."

Jacob laughed behind him. May shook her head and went downstairs beside Ravi.

Ethan closed the door after their voices had faded down the stairs. The latch caught, and he could still hear Ravi say something that made May laugh before the building swallowed the answer. Inside, the television repeated the same few menu notes. A glass stood beside the controller. Jacob was in the kitchen, shutting the cupboard they'd both left open. Ethan watched him reach up, the green shirt lifting at his waist, and realized he was waiting to find out what happened now that it was just the two of them. "Good night," Jacob said.

Ethan turned too quickly. "You going to bed?"

"No. I meant it was a good night."

"Oh."

Jacob's smile changed, softening at the edges. "Unless you're tired."

"Not yet."

"Me neither."

Ethan let his hand fall from the lock. He couldn't make a sensible sentence out of wanting Jacob to stay when he already lived here. "I'm a little drunk," he said.

Jacob laughed softly. "Yeah. Me too."

There was something relieving about hearing it named. Ethan wasn't imagining the warmth in his face or the way the kitchen seemed slightly farther away than usual. He went there anyway, filled his glass, and drank while Jacob turned the television off.

Ethan gathered the napkins while Jacob collected the glasses from the living room. At the sink, Ethan held out his hands for the last two rather than reach around him.

"I can take them," Jacob said.

"I'm already here."

He handed them over. Ethan put them down carefully enough that Jacob smiled at the sound.

"What?"

"Nothing. Very gentle."

"They're glass."

"They are."

Ethan laughed, hearing how that had sounded. He rested both hands on the counter until the room stopped following the small movement of his head. Beside him, Jacob was grinning at the sink. He was beautiful when he forgot to be cautious about taking up space. Ethan thought it plainly, then looked down because he didn't know what his face had done with the thought.

They rinsed what needed rinsing. The trays could wait. Ethan put the sauce spoon on Rose's dish, noticed a smear already there, and washed the little dish too. Jacob passed him a towel before he asked. "I sent her a picture," Ethan said.

"Your mom?"

"Rose. Of this." He lifted the dish slightly. "I told you."

"I remember."

"She liked that we were using it."

Jacob looked at the blue rim. "It's a good dish."

Ethan smiled. "I'll tell her."

"You did already."

Ethan said, "I can tell her twice." Jacob's laugh was quieter this time. Ethan liked the sound close beside him, without anyone else talking across it.

The room was nearly tidy when a song began on the speaker. The television had stopped, but neither had turned the music off. Ethan recognized the opening, then lost the next line while trying to remember it. Jacob supplied the words under his breath.

"You know this one too."

"You keep saying that like I only know three."

"You don't sing them."

Jacob glanced at him. "I do when nobody's here."

"I'm here." He hadn't meant it as a question. The words sounded like one after they left him.

Jacob set the towel down. "Yeah."

The song went on while neither of them moved. Jacob had stopped with the towel beneath his hand. Ethan could hear the voice on the recording carry on alone, filling the place where Jacob's had been, and he wanted those few words back. "I like it," he said.

"What?"

"You singing."

Jacob looked away, smiling at the counter. "You've heard about six words."

Ethan said, "They were good words." That made Jacob laugh. Ethan laughed too, not because the line was especially funny but because Jacob's whole face had changed and Ethan had been the reason. He wanted to keep doing that.

"Leave those," Jacob said when Ethan reached for the last tray. "They're soaking."

"I know."

"Then leave them."

Ethan did. He dried his hands, checked that the oven was off because he couldn't remember whether he'd already checked, and went to the sofa. Jacob brought their water over and took the place beside him.

Jacob put his glass on the coaster and left his hand beside it. A pale mark showed near the base of his thumb. Ethan nodded toward it. "What's that from?"

Jacob looked at his hand. "I caught it on a latch. Years ago." He turned it a little toward the lamp. "At the pool. There was a gate everybody knew was awkward. I thought I'd found the trick to it."

"Had you?"

"For about three seconds."

Ethan laughed. Jacob was smiling at the scar, apparently remembering the next part without offering it. "Then what?"

"Then I had to tell the person who'd warned me."

"Oh, no."

"She was very nice about it. I'd have preferred it if she'd laughed. I was standing there with a towel around my hand, trying to explain a mechanism she'd just watched fail."

"You kept talking," Ethan said.

"Probably."

"I can hear it."

"I'm sure it was very informative." Jacob laughed, then looked at his hand again. "I liked working there. Some days were just hot and long. After closing was the best part. The concrete finally cooled off. Somebody always put the radio on while we finished."

"You miss it?"

Jacob took a moment before answering. "Sometimes."

Ethan nodded. He didn't ask whether Jacob wanted to go back. "I like hearing about it," he said.

Jacob looked at him. "Even the gate?"

"Especially the gate." Ethan was still smiling when Jacob reached for his water.

The room no longer needed entertaining. Ethan could feel the change in his shoulders as he settled back. He put one foot on the edge of the rug, left the other tucked beneath him, and turned toward Jacob instead of the dark television. "I liked tonight," he said.

"Me too."

"We should do it again."

"We can."

He knew they could. He was trying to say something about how easy it had been to have a night with him in the middle of it. The wine made the feeling simpler than the sentence. "It's nice," he said, and stopped before he added enough words to spoil it.

Jacob was looking at him. "Yeah."

Ethan let his hand rest on the cushion between them. Jacob's lay a few inches away, fingers loose, the back of his wrist marked faintly where the controller had pressed against it. He could reach over. He could put his hand on top of it and see what happened. Instead he asked about the song.

Jacob told him where he'd first heard it, then admitted that memory might be attached to an entirely different song. Ethan began laughing before he'd finished explaining. Jacob tried again, got the year wrong, and laughed at himself. "It's fine," Ethan said. "I don't need proof."

"I'm going to remember it in bed."

"You can tell me tomorrow."

Jacob's expression shifted. Not much. Enough that Ethan wanted to know what he'd heard in it. "Okay," Jacob said.

Ethan moved his hand an inch along the cushion. His little finger touched Jacob's knuckle. Neither moved for a moment. Then Jacob turned his hand, slowly enough that Ethan could have taken his away. Their fingers rested together without quite holding. Ethan looked at the contact, then up at him. Ethan was still smiling, but it took more effort to breathe.

Jacob could feel Ethan's finger against his before he understood that Ethan had left it there. He looked down. Their hands rested between them on the sofa, close enough that the smallest movement had become something he needed to consider. He'd turned his own hand without knowing what he meant to do next. Now Ethan was watching him, his mouth a little open, and Jacob couldn't remember why he'd thought looking up would help.

The music was quiet. A car passed outside, tires making a brief sound against the street. He could hear the refrigerator begin another cycle in the kitchen. "You all right?" he asked.

Ethan nodded. "Yeah." His finger moved along Jacob's, lightly enough that Jacob might have imagined it if he hadn't been watching.

He was drunk. He knew that from the warmth behind his eyes, the loose feeling in his shoulders, the way he'd had to take a second to place the glass on the coaster instead of beside it. Ethan had told him he was too.

Ethan shifted on the cushion. His knee touched Jacob's thigh.

"You don't have to move," Jacob said.

"I wasn't going to."

He smiled, small and unmistakable. Jacob felt the answer low in his chest and looked at their hands again, trying to give himself time.

It had been easier when there was somebody else in the room. He could listen to May, answer Ravi, watch Ethan when Ethan was looking somewhere different. Alone, there wasn't a place to put the attention that didn't give him away.

He wanted to kiss him.

He'd wanted it before tonight, in circumstances that had nothing to do with wine or the sofa. He'd sat in Christopher's room in El Paso and admitted that he wanted to hold Ethan's hand. He could remember how hard that small sentence had been to say. Now Ethan's fingers were against his, and there were mornings and grocery bags and the sound of him coming home behind the wish. Jacob couldn't separate it into something small enough to try without caring what happened afterward.

Ethan's gaze moved to his mouth. Jacob forgot the rest of the argument.

He leaned a little closer, then stopped. Ethan had gone still, eyes back on his. The space was narrow enough now that Jacob could feel his next breath. "Can I kiss you?"

Ethan's fingers closed around his. "Yeah." His voice was quiet. "Please."

Jacob lifted his free hand to the side of Ethan's face. He brushed his thumb carefully against Ethan's cheek, and the feeling it sent through him didn't fit the smallness of the movement.

Ethan came toward him.

Their mouths met slightly off-center. Jacob adjusted, felt Ethan's hand settle against his upper arm, and then stopped thinking about the angle at all. Ethan was warm. His mouth was softer than Jacob had let himself imagine when imagining it could still be stopped. There was wine on his breath and the faint, clean smell of the soap he used upstairs, familiar from standing beside him at the sink and suddenly different this close.

Ethan kissed him back.

That was the part Jacob hadn't known how to prepare for. The pressure, the hand tightening on his arm, the small movement nearer that made it unmistakable. He'd asked. Ethan had answered. Now he was answering again with his mouth, and Jacob felt something he'd kept held very carefully loosen all at once.

He drew back just enough to breathe. Ethan followed a fraction before stopping. His eyes opened, unfocused for the first second, then finding Jacob's face. Jacob couldn't stop looking at him. "Okay?" he asked.

Ethan nodded, a quick movement beneath his hand. "Yeah." His thumb brushed Jacob's sleeve. Then he smiled.

Jacob kissed him again. This time Ethan was ready. He turned toward him fully, one knee folding onto the cushion, and Jacob moved his own hand from Ethan's cheek to the back of his neck. The curls there were warm against his fingers. He'd looked at them in the kitchen and outside by the table, wanting a reason to touch them. He didn't need to invent one now.

Ethan slid his hand from Jacob's upper arm to his shoulder. It stayed there for a moment, then moved down his chest as though he was finding out where he could put it. Jacob's breath caught. Ethan paused immediately. "Sorry."

"No." Jacob shook his head, smiling before he meant to. "You're fine."

Ethan's hand remained where it was. He looked at Jacob, checking, then let his palm settle more comfortably against him. It was such an ordinary place to touch somebody. People had put hands on Jacob's chest before, to stop a collision or get his attention or hold him back from a door they were trying to open. Ethan had done it less than an hour ago at the refrigerator. Jacob could remember the exact moment now.

He leaned in again, slower, and Ethan met him halfway. The second kiss had been surprised even after the first. This one let him notice things: the way Ethan tilted his head, the slight pressure of his fingers against Jacob's chest, the soft exhale through his nose when Jacob's thumb moved at his neck. Jacob let the kiss deepen a little and felt Ethan come closer until their knees were properly together.

He wanted him nearer. He wanted several things at once, with a force that made him stop and take another breath. He kept his hand at Ethan's neck. The other lay over the fingers Ethan hadn't quite let go of.

Ethan rested his forehead lightly against Jacob's temple, an awkward angle that made them both move at the same time. Their noses caught. Ethan laughed. Jacob laughed too, relief breaking through the strange tightness in his chest.

"Sorry," Ethan said again.

"That was me."

"I moved."

"So did I." They were smiling at each other now, close enough that Jacob could see the faint mark at the corner of Ethan's mouth where he'd been pressing his lips together earlier. Jacob touched it with his thumb. Ethan stopped laughing.

For a moment there was only the contact and the way Ethan looked back at him. Jacob could have kissed him again. He wanted to. He also wanted to be able to see his whole face. His own hand looked enormous against Ethan's face. He knew how to make the touch light; that wasn't what surprised him. It was Ethan turning into it, just a fraction, as though he wanted the pressure to remain.

Jacob moved his thumb once along Ethan's cheek and watched his eyes close. He could feel the faint warmth of his breath against his wrist. He wanted to be gentle with him, and Ethan was letting him. When Ethan opened his eyes again, Jacob let his hand slide back to his shoulder.

"That was good," Ethan said. The words were soft and slightly breathless, as though he hadn't decided to say them until he heard them coming out.

"Yeah." Jacob was still smiling when Ethan shifted his knee, trying to come nearer. His weight came forward too quickly. Jacob caught his upper arm before he could tip against the table, and Ethan laughed, his hand pressing hard against Jacob's chest. When he tried to sit upright again, he swayed.

"Sorry. I'm fine." The words ran together, the last one drawn out longer than Ethan seemed to intend. He blinked at Jacob, tried to adjust his foot, and stopped with it caught beneath his other leg.

Jacob kept hold of his arm. The warmth of Ethan's mouth was still on his, and he wanted another kiss badly enough that moving back took an effort. He made room for Ethan to put his foot down. "We should stop."

Ethan looked at him. The smile stayed for a second, then changed. "Oh." He took his hand off Jacob's chest and set it against the cushion. "Okay."

"You've had a lot. Let me get you some water." Jacob loosened his grip once Ethan was sitting back. He'd known they were both drinking. He hadn't realized how much Ethan was relying on the back of the sofa until it wasn't behind him.

"I can get it." Ethan began to move, then paused with his fingers pressed into the cushion.

"Stay there a minute." Jacob softened his voice. "Please."

Ethan nodded. Jacob took the two glasses from the table and went to the kitchen. He kept looking back while he filled them. Ethan had put both feet on the floor and was watching his own hands. A moment ago he'd been smiling up at Jacob with his mouth still warm from being kissed. Jacob wanted to go back to that part. He wanted Ethan steady enough to move toward him without needing to be caught. He came back and sat beside him, leaving room this time. "Here."

"Thanks." Ethan took the glass in both hands. He drank, lowered it, and looked toward Jacob without quite meeting his eyes. "Sorry."

Jacob's chest tightened. "You don't have to be sorry."

"Okay." Ethan lowered his eyes to the glass and took another drink.

Jacob held his own glass without drinking. He'd asked. Ethan had said yes, come toward him, kissed him back. He could remember every part of that. He didn't know how it would feel to Ethan in the morning, or whether the apology meant he was already wishing they'd left it alone. Asking him now would mean asking while he was still having to concentrate on where to put the glass.

The song changed. Jacob recognized the beginning and lost the name before he could reach it. He looked toward the speaker.

"What?" Ethan asked.

"I've forgotten another song."

Ethan looked toward the speaker, then back at him. "You can tell me tomorrow."

"Okay." Jacob set his glass down. Ethan held his against his knee, both hands around it.

Jacob wanted to put an arm around him. He kept his hands where they were. He was drunk too; when he turned his head, the room took a second to settle around the movement. Ethan leaned forward to find the coaster, and Jacob moved it closer. "Thanks," Ethan said, carefully, and put the glass down.

He'd wanted another kiss when he'd said they should stop. He still did. Ethan had gone quiet, and Jacob couldn't tell whether he was tired or uncomfortable. In the dark television he could see the lamp and the edge of the sofa, the space between their shoulders.

His phone vibrated near the cushion. He found it beneath his thigh, having apparently put it there when they began playing. Ravi had sent that he was home, with a photograph of the book beside the food container. May's message had arrived a few minutes earlier. Home. Thanks for tonight. Jacob angled the screen toward Ethan, who looked at it, then reached for his own phone. They sent their replies. Jacob set his phone facedown before the bright screen could keep him there.

Ethan rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand. When Jacob looked over, he stopped. "Tired," he said.

"Yeah." Jacob couldn't tell whether Ethan meant he wanted to go to bed. He waited.

Ethan leaned forward and straightened one of the controllers on the table. It wasn't in anybody's way. Jacob watched him put it beside the other one. "We can leave the trays," he said.

Ethan nodded without looking up.

Jacob sat beside him until Ethan stood, taking his glass. He put his free hand on the back of the sofa before taking a step. Jacob got up and waited until he was steady, then turned the music off.

At the bottom of the stairs, Ethan paused with his hand on the rail. Jacob stopped beside him. He could hear the refrigerator behind them. Ethan looked at him, then up the stairs, and shifted his grip.

Jacob took the glass and offered his other arm. Ethan hesitated, then held it. They went up slowly, Jacob close beside him until he stepped onto the landing. Ethan let go to switch on the lamp. Jacob carried the water to the nightstand, then came back to him. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Ethan looked at him. "Thanks."

Jacob stayed long enough to see him reach the bathroom, then went downstairs. He could hear Ethan moving above him, enough to know when the water ran and stopped. The light near the bed stayed on.

There were things Jacob could do. Check the door. Put the water away. Move the last plate off the edge of the counter. He did those things slowly, then stopped before he began washing a tray neither of them needed tonight.

The room felt altered and entirely familiar. Ethan's laptop was on the stairs where he'd left it before dinner. The blanket lay in a heap on the sofa, pushed aside when May sat down. Jacob picked it up and remembered Ethan's hand against his chest with enough clarity that he had to stand still. He folded the blanket once, badly, and left it on the arm.

Jacob went to his room and slid the door closed carefully so it wouldn't stick. Inside, the room was warm, with a strip of light showing along the edge of the partition. He put his phone on the desk, sat on the bed, and touched his mouth before he noticed he was doing it. The smile came anyway. Above him, Ethan moved across the landing. Jacob listened until the movement stopped and tried to work out what he could say when they met in the kitchen.

Ethan woke with one arm beneath the pillow and the clear memory of Jacob's hand against his face. For a moment he didn't move. The light beyond his eyelids was too bright, his mouth tasted stale, and the position of his shoulder suggested he'd been sleeping on it for longer than it wanted. None of those things displaced the hand.

He remembered being asked. He remembered saying yes.

His eyes opened. The mezzanine looked exactly as it had yesterday. Book on the nightstand, shirt half over the chair, a glass of water beside the lamp. He could see his phone facedown near the edge and the strip of sunlight already moving across the rug. He reached for the water and drank too quickly. His stomach objected. He put the glass down, rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling.

Jacob had kissed him.

There was no useful way to make that smaller. He could remember the first contact, the slight adjustment, the warmth of Jacob's hand at his neck afterward. He could remember touching his chest and being told he was fine to leave his hand there. He could remember wanting to keep doing it, and Jacob saying they should stop.

Below him, a drawer opened and shut. Ethan turned his head toward the railing. Jacob was awake. Of course he might be awake; it was morning, and one of them usually reached the kitchen first. The fact acquired a significance it hadn't possessed yesterday. He checked the time. Not early enough to pretend he was sleeping in on purpose.

His phone held a message from May, sent last night. He'd answered it. He read his answer twice, relieved that it was ordinary, then annoyed with himself for checking. Ravi had sent something in the shared thread too. A picture of the book. Ethan remembered Jacob showing him the message after— After. He put the phone down.

The order of some things was less clear. Whether they'd put the food away before moving to the sofa. How long May had stayed once her car arrived. Which song had been playing when Jacob turned his hand. The kiss itself wasn't one of the uncertain things.

Ethan sat up slowly. His head throbbed above his right eye. He stayed still until the room felt less sharp, then went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth for longer than necessary because it gave him something to do with his hands.

By the time he came back out, he'd made three possible decisions about how to behave and rejected all of them. Acting as though nothing had happened sounded impossible. Going downstairs to ask whether Jacob regretted it sounded worse. He changed his shirt. He didn't check which one he'd chosen until it was on.

From the stairs he could see Jacob at the island, reading something on his phone. A mug stood beside his elbow. He wore shorts and a soft gray shirt, his hair still sticking up at the back. The familiarity of it made Ethan's chest tighten.

Jacob looked up. "Morning."

"Hey." Ethan came down the remaining steps. The room smelled of toast and coffee. The blanket was folded over the arm of the sofa, not neatly, and the controllers sat side by side on the table. He could see where they'd been sitting. He made himself keep walking.

"Coffee's there," Jacob said. "I didn't know when you'd be up."

"Thanks."

"There's water too."

Ethan looked at the pitcher. "I see it." The answer came out flatter than he'd meant. Jacob put the phone down.

"Sorry. I'm not giving instructions."

"No. I know. My head hurts."

"Yeah." Jacob rubbed the side of his own forehead. "Same."

That helped for a second. They could both be people who'd drunk too much last night. Ethan took a glass, filled it, and drank a little at a time. "You eaten?" he asked.

"Toast. I was going to do eggs."

"I can."

"I've got the pan out."

"Okay." He stayed on the other side of the island while Jacob got up. Usually he would have moved around him for a mug, opened the drawer at his hip, or reached across to take the plate before Jacob decided where to put it. This morning he could remember the places his hands had been. He didn't know whether Jacob wanted them there now. Reaching for a mug ought not to have been part of that question. He stayed where he was.

"Scrambled?" Jacob asked.

"Yeah. Please."

"You can make the toast if you want."

Ethan came around the island and took out the bread. "How many?"

"One more."

He put one slice in beside his own. When Jacob reached past him for the bowl, Ethan moved half a step. Jacob took it to the stove without looking up.

Ethan watched him break the eggs and find the fork. His movements were slower than usual, but he seemed to know what to do with himself. "Ravi's appointment changed again," Jacob said, looking at his phone.

"Already?"

"He sent it at eight." Jacob put the phone down and went back to the eggs. Ethan listened to the fork scrape against the bowl.

He turned to the toast before it burned. They ate at the island, the place where they'd sat over the calendar less than a week ago. Jacob put the plate down close enough that Ethan didn't have to reach. Ethan passed him the pepper, waited for him to finish with it, and tried to think of a question that didn't sound as though he'd rehearsed it upstairs. "Did you sleep all right?"

Jacob swallowed. "Yeah. Took me a bit."

"Me too."

"The room was warm."

"Yeah." Ethan looked down at his eggs. It had been warm upstairs too.

"I'll open the terrace door earlier tonight," Jacob said.

Tonight. Ethan could hear another whole evening in the word. They'd still be here. They'd still need to decide whether the room was hot and what to eat and whether one of them wanted the television. He took a bite of toast because he didn't know what to do with how much he wanted that.

Jacob asked whether he had work to finish. Ethan told him about the reading for next week and the response he wanted to start before Monday. Jacob nodded and said he might spend some time on the course preparation, but not while his head felt like this.

"Same," Ethan said. He hadn't thought about the course yet this morning. October felt very far away and uncomfortably close. He would sit beside Jacob there, come home with him, know what his mouth felt like, and apparently carry on answering questions about breakfast.

Jacob reached for the water pitcher. "More?"

Ethan slid his glass toward him. Their fingers brushed at the base. He looked up too fast. Jacob was looking at the glass. He filled it, put the pitcher down, and wiped the small drip off the stone with his thumb. Ethan remembered that thumb at his cheek. He put his fork down.

Jacob noticed. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Too much?"

Ethan said, "No. It's good. Thanks." Jacob nodded and returned to his plate. Ethan picked his fork up again because there wasn't anything wrong with the eggs.

He wanted to ask whether last night had been good for him too. Jacob had smiled and kissed him again. He'd also been the one to stop. This morning he was making breakfast and checking whether Ethan could eat it. He'd done that before they'd ever kissed. Ethan didn't know how to ask for more without finding out Jacob didn't want it.

The phone on the counter vibrated. Jacob glanced at the name, then turned the screen so Ethan could see a photograph of Christopher's model from an angle that made it look much larger than it was. "He's trying to get the background out," Jacob said.

"You can see the cushion."

"Yeah." Jacob took the phone back and typed his reply. Ethan watched his thumb move across the screen.

There were things about Jacob's life Ethan didn't know. The private parts of his conversations with Christopher, what he did in the room beneath Ethan's when he couldn't sleep. They'd never owed each other all of it. He took the last of the toast.

Afterward, Jacob began washing the pan. Ethan got the towel and stood beside him. Jacob passed him the pan, and he dried it, found a damp patch near the handle, and dried that too. The spoon rest stood beside the stove, clean and empty. He moved it to reach the cupboard, put it back, and heard himself say, "Last night was nice." His voice sounded too casual, an imitation of the way he might have said it yesterday. He looked at Jacob anyway.

Jacob looked back. "Yeah. It was." He smiled, but for a moment neither of them did the next thing. Water ran over the glass in his hand. Then Jacob looked down at it. "May liked the food," he added. "She texted."

"Good." Ethan put the pan away. He could remember Jacob telling him he'd had a lot, the water, Jacob's arm beside him on the stairs. He'd needed the help. This morning he was standing here sober, waiting for Jacob to say he'd liked kissing him, and Jacob was talking about dinner. "I just thought—"

Jacob turned the faucet off. "What?"

Ethan had his attention now. That was worse, somehow, the quiet sink and Jacob waiting with the glass still in his hand. He could ask. He could make Jacob answer when all he'd offered was breakfast and a way to carry on. "We should have them over again," Ethan said.

"Definitely." Jacob held the glass out to him. Ethan reached a moment too late, after Jacob had begun drawing it back, and they both stopped. Then Jacob gave it to him. Ethan dried the rim before setting it down.

Outside, a car sounded its horn. Jacob turned the water on again and reached for the next plate. Ethan listened when he asked where the larger tray belonged.

They finished the dishes. Jacob gave him the tray that had soaked overnight and warned him about the water pooled in the corner. Ethan kept it level, dried it, and put it away. Jacob took the towel when Ethan held it out.

Jacob dried his hands and picked up the paper they'd left beneath the mug yesterday. "Can we send those pictures while there's light?"

Ethan looked at the measurements. For a second he couldn't remember which pictures he meant.

"The frame," Jacob added. "They asked for the top edge. I couldn't get it properly last night."

"Oh. Yeah." He took his phone and followed Jacob toward the partition. The door was open. He stopped outside the room while Jacob moved the desk chair a little farther back, clearing the angle without shifting any furniture that needed two people.

From here Ethan could see the bed, the lamp, a shirt Jacob had folded and left on the dresser. There was nothing about the room he hadn't seen before. He still found himself looking at it with the uncomfortable awareness that Jacob had gone in there last night after helping him upstairs. Had he lain awake too? Ethan didn't ask. He lifted the phone instead.

"That bit?"

Jacob came out and pointed. "Along there. They want to see how it meets the existing edge."

Ethan took a photograph, enlarged it, and found the light had caught the surface so brightly that the relevant detail disappeared. "Not that one," he said.

"Want me to do it?"

"Let me move." He changed the angle. Jacob stepped aside before he had to ask, then held the door where Ethan wanted it. The second image was clearer. Ethan checked it before taking another, wider one, enough of the surrounding structure included that the close view would make sense. "There."

Jacob leaned over his shoulder. Ethan felt the heat of him before the contact, the front of Jacob's shirt brushing the back of his arm. "Yeah. That shows it."

He didn't move away immediately. Ethan kept the screen still, afraid he'd make the moment strange by noticing it too visibly. Then Jacob stepped back and opened the email thread. "They wanted the door shut as well."

Ethan took the last photograph with the door resting at the point where it caught, then sent all three clear images to Jacob. Back at the island, he put his phone down while Jacob attached them to the reply. "I'm putting both of us on this," Jacob said.

Ethan nodded. He stayed beside him until the message had gone.

Jacob found the folder beneath the blue book and slid the measurements inside. Ethan watched him leave it within reach of both of them instead of taking it into his room. Ethan wanted the room improved too: the door sitting properly, the sound reduced, the last practical pieces finished.

Jacob picked up the phone Ethan had left on the island and held it out. "Here."

"Thanks." Ethan put it in his pocket. He didn't want to lose the mornings they'd had before last night. He also didn't want the kiss put somewhere they could never reach again. Jacob went to put the last cup away.

By the time the kitchen was clear, the headache had eased. Jacob took his coffee to the sofa and moved the badly folded blanket out of the way. Ethan watched him look at the empty cushion, then at the laptop Ethan had left on the stairs. "You want this end?" Jacob asked.

"What?"

"For reading. You usually sit here."

"It's fine. Stay."

Jacob stayed.

Ethan went upstairs for the reading and brought it down instead of taking it to the bed. There was space at the other end of the sofa. He sat, tucked one foot beneath him, and opened the book. He could remember turning toward Jacob from almost this position. The hand at his neck. His own knee against Jacob's leg. He looked at the first line until it became a sentence again.

Beside him, Jacob made a small dissatisfied sound at something on his phone.

"What?" Ethan asked.

Jacob said, "I found the song." Ethan looked up. Jacob turned the screen toward him. "The one I couldn't remember."

He could remember asking to be told tomorrow. He'd said it twice, apparently. Once before the kiss, once after. Ethan didn't know which time Jacob was remembering. "Oh," he said. "Yeah. That one."

Jacob smiled and put it on quietly. The first notes reached Ethan before he could look down at the book. Last night he'd been turned toward Jacob, his hand on the cushion between them. Now the same song was something to read to. He waited for Jacob to say something, then hated that he was still waiting. "Can we put something else on?"

Jacob's hand stopped beside his coffee. "Sure." He picked up the phone and changed it, without the argument Ethan would have expected yesterday about how many times he was allowed to reject the music. Another song began. Jacob put the phone down.

Ethan looked at the page. The relief lasted less than a breath; then he wanted the other song back, and Jacob's face before he'd asked. His chest ached in a way that didn't belong to the hangover. He'd wanted the kiss. He still wanted it. Across the cushion, Jacob settled back with his coffee, close enough that Ethan could reach him if he moved. Ethan left the book open and stayed beside him, listening to the song he'd asked for.

Christopher had taken the same photograph nine times, and Jacob liked the one he'd already deleted.

"You can't see the wheel in that one."

"You can if you look."

Christopher turned the screen toward him. "Where?"

Jacob leaned closer. The wing occupied most of the frame. Beneath it there was a dark shape that might have been the wheel or might have been the shadow Christopher had spent twenty minutes trying to get rid of. "Okay. Not that one."

"That's what I said."

He took the phone back and scrolled to the next image. Jacob settled farther into the chair, careful not to nudge the table. The plane stood on a sheet of blue card in front of a second sheet curved against a box. From the correct angle, the join disappeared. From where Jacob sat, it looked like a plane on Eddie's table with a cereal box behind it. Christopher wanted the correct angle.

The crutches were propped within reach beside his chair. His laptop sat farther down the table, showing a photograph Denny had sent as an example. Jacob had been told twice that they weren't copying it. They were trying the same idea with different lighting, which was apparently an important distinction.

"Hold that?" Christopher asked.

Jacob took the edge of the card. "Here?"

"Higher. Not the whole thing."

He moved his hand. Christopher adjusted the camera, stopped, and frowned at the screen.

"Now your finger's in it."

"You asked me to hold it."

"From behind."

Jacob laughed and moved. "You could've started with that."

"I thought you'd look."

He deserved that. He looked properly this time, found a place to brace the card without making his hand part of the sky, and held still.

Christopher took the photograph. For a moment neither moved, waiting for the phone to finish its small processing trick. Then Chris inspected the image. "That's better."

Jacob let go only after Christopher nodded. The card stayed upright. He flexed his fingers, glad to let the box support it for a while.

It was Sunday afternoon. Eddie had let him in, offered coffee, and left them to it while he dealt with something in the back of the house. There were still belongings waiting to arrive from Texas. A list lay on the kitchen counter with an estimated delivery window crossed out and a new one beneath it.

Nothing had arrived early just because Christopher had plans for where it should go.

At the loft that morning, Ethan had been standing at the stove when Jacob came out of his room. He'd moved aside for the coffee, asked how he wanted the toast, and smiled when Jacob said he could do it himself. Ethan had left the bread beside the pan and gone back to the stove. Jacob had nearly asked what he was doing later, then remembered he already knew: groceries, reading, the ordinary Sunday they'd talked about at breakfast. He'd said he was going to Eddie's and waited too long for Ethan to look up.

Yesterday he'd found the song, and Ethan had asked for something else. Jacob had changed it. He didn't know whether Ethan wished they hadn't started. He'd checked his phone twice on the way here, though there was nothing Ethan needed to send.

Christopher shifted the laptop an inch. Jacob didn't notice until Chris moved it back toward himself. He looked up then, too late to pretend he'd been following.

The course packet on his desk had become more definite by the day; the job possibilities remained possibilities. Waiting made him want to do something with his hands, which was how he'd spent the first ten minutes here trying to improve a piece of card Christopher had already positioned correctly. Now he kept his hands on his own knees. "Have you put it anywhere yet?" he asked.

"The picture?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sending it to Denny first. He said the last one looked like a toy."

Jacob looked at the model. "It is a—"

"I know."

He shut his mouth, smiling. Christopher looked annoyed for another second before his own smile broke through.

"Not like that," he said.

"I know what you mean."

"You keep saying things."

"I'll try not to."

Christopher considered whether to believe him, then returned to the photograph. He wanted it to look as though someone could have been standing beside the real plane. The ground mattered. So did the shadow. He showed Jacob an older picture where the background worked but the light came from two directions at once.

Jacob followed the lines on the screen. "We could turn the lamp off and use the window."

"It changes."

"The light?"

"Clouds."

He glanced toward the window. There were enough thin patches moving across the sun to make Christopher's objection reasonable. "Then close the blind and use the lamp."

"That's what I did."

"Right."

Christopher looked at him more closely. "Are you listening?"

Jacob had been listening. He'd also been looking at the phone beside his thigh, which had lit a moment earlier with a message he hadn't opened. He knew who it was from. He'd seen the name. "Not well enough," he admitted. "Sorry. Show me what you've tried."

Christopher left the laptop where it was. "I showed you."

"You did." Jacob got up and put his phone facedown on the sideboard, beyond the edge of his vision. When he sat again, he waited instead of reaching for the screen. Christopher looked at him for another moment before turning the laptop.

There were four versions, not nine versions of the same attempt. Christopher had changed one thing each time and kept the rest as close as he could. Jacob leaned in, following the differences, and began to see the method he'd missed while offering things Chris had already tried.

"You've already done the window."

"Yes."

"And the other lamp."

"It's too bright."

He showed him. It was. The white surface of the plane had lost its detail.

Jacob rubbed his jaw. "Okay. What do you want to change on this one?"

Christopher pointed to the shadow, then to the wheel. "Those. Not everything."

They moved the lamp a little farther away and changed the angle. Jacob carried it; Christopher stayed where he could see the screen and told him when to stop. It took three adjustments. The last was barely an inch.

"There."

Jacob let go and stepped clear. Christopher took another photograph. This time the wheel was visible and the background didn't betray the cereal box. He looked pleased before remembering to inspect the other details.

"Can I see?" Jacob asked.

Christopher handed him the phone. It was a good picture. "I like that one," Jacob said.

"Me too."

Chris took it back, enlarged one corner, and made a small dissatisfied noise.

"What?"

"Dust."

Jacob bent closer. A pale speck sat on the blue surface beside the wheel. "We can take another."

Christopher sighed, long and ordinary and fourteen. "I know."

Before they ate, Christopher tried turning the photograph sideways to compare it with the example. Jacob watched him enlarge the lower edge, then lose the whole frame because his finger moved farther than he intended.

"Hang on."

Jacob left the phone alone. Chris steadied his wrist against the table and brought the image back. "That," he said. "Under there. It's all black."

Jacob looked at the wheel again. The detail had disappeared where the shadow met it. "We could bounce some light in."

"With what?"

He picked up the white back of the card they weren't using. "This, maybe."

Christopher looked unconvinced, which was reasonable. Jacob had seen somebody do it once. That wasn't the same as knowing exactly where to put it.

They tried. The first position did almost nothing. The second showed the card as a bright reflection in a part of the model Chris wanted to remain plain. Jacob moved it lower, farther from the lens, and watched Christopher's face rather than assume the result.

"A little back."

He moved.

"There."

The difference on the screen was small. It was also the difference Christopher had been asking for. He took the picture, then made Jacob hold the card while he checked it at the same size as the others.

Jacob's shoulder began to ache from keeping his arm in an awkward position. "Can I put it down?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

He lowered it and shook his arm out. Christopher shifted the box to make a temporary support instead of asking him to hold the whole afternoon still.

"Better?"

"Much."

They took another photograph with the support in place. It worked. Christopher saved the version and wrote down where the lamp had been, using the edge of the table as a reference. Jacob watched him make the note. He liked the seriousness of it, the way Chris could care about getting this right without needing it to be a school assignment or something an adult would count as worthwhile.

"You want to do another model after this?" he asked.

"Eventually."

"You picked one?"

"I've looked."

He showed Jacob two possibilities. One cost considerably more than the other, and Christopher didn't seem certain which he wanted. Jacob asked what came in the smaller kit. Christopher read it aloud, then checked a review that pointed out something the product page hadn't. "I'm not buying it today," he said.

"I didn't think you were."

"Dad keeps asking if I'm buying it."

"He probably wants to know whether the box is going to arrive."

Christopher considered that. "I could tell him."

"You could."

"Still looking."

Jacob smiled. "That's an answer."

Chris saved the page and put it away before the afternoon became a different project. Jacob left his own phone on the sideboard and helped move the card safely toward the far end of the table.

They ate before doing it again. Eddie came through to ask whether they wanted what was left in the refrigerator or whether he should make something. Christopher asked what the options were. Jacob began to say he wasn't hungry, then realized he was and asked for the same.

"You can make a sandwich," Eddie told him.

"I know."

"Then make one."

There was a smile in it. Jacob got up, washed his hands, and found plates while Christopher moved the model safely back from the edge. The card could remain where it was. They had enough table left for lunch if nobody tried to put a glass in the sky.

Eddie took his own food elsewhere after Christopher asked whether they could keep the setup until they finished. He said yes, provided finishing didn't mean leaving it across the table until Tuesday.

"Today," Christopher said.

"Good."

Jacob brought the sandwiches over and moved the lamp cord out of the route before sitting. Christopher had opened a message from Nora. He read it, typed, erased something, and looked up to find Jacob putting the plate within reach.

"What?"

"Nothing." Jacob sat. "I haven't said anything."

"You looked."

"You're across the table."

Christopher gave him a look, then set the phone down. Jacob left the subject alone. After a few bites, Chris picked it up again. "She asked about the campus."

"Nora?"

"Yeah. I showed her the pictures."

Jacob nodded. "What did she want to know?"

"If you have to go there to walk around."

"For the bits we visited, no."

"That's what I said."

"Then you answered her."

Christopher looked at the phone. "She said it looks nice."

Jacob waited. There might have been another question. There might simply have been a girl Christopher liked saying that somewhere he'd been looked nice. "It was nice," Jacob said eventually.

"I know."

Chris smiled into his sandwich. Jacob took a bite of his own and didn't ask whether Nora wanted to go with him. If Christopher wanted to tell him that, he would.

After a while, Chris asked whether they could go again some time.

"Yeah. We said we would."

"Not when you have the course."

"Weekends still exist."

"You'll have homework."

Jacob looked down at the plate. "Probably. We can find a day. I don't want to promise one and then move it."

Christopher nodded, apparently satisfied that they could find a day that actually worked. "We can look next week," he said.

"Okay."

"And somewhere else too. Not just there."

"You've got a list?"

"Some things."

He showed him. A museum. A place Denny had mentioned. A film whose start times apparently assumed nobody needed to eat dinner. Jacob asked which one Chris wanted most, and Christopher made him read the descriptions before answering. That was fair. Jacob read them.

The museum needed a longer day than the others. They could save it for when neither was trying to fit the visit between something else. The film was easier, although Christopher wanted to see whether Denny could come too. Jacob said he'd go if the time worked and let Chris handle asking.

He liked being included in plans that didn't require him to be the entire plan.

Christopher began a message to Denny, then stopped to look at the start times again.

"If he can't do that one, there's another later."

"Send him both," Jacob said.

"Then he'll say either."

"Would that be bad?"

"Somebody has to pick."

Jacob ate the last bite of sandwich while Christopher decided how to phrase the question.

"I'm asking about the first one," Christopher said finally. "If he can't, he can tell me."

"Okay."

Christopher sent it and put the phone down with the screen facing the table. "Now we finish the picture."

Jacob smiled. "Now we finish the picture."

Christopher finished eating and returned to the photograph. Jacob checked his own phone while Chris adjusted the lamp.

Ethan: Going to get groceries later. Want anything?

Jacob began to type that he'd be home by six, then stopped. Ethan hadn't asked when he was coming back. He looked toward the table, where Christopher was adjusting the lamp cord so it wouldn't pull against the card, and deleted the time. Then he answered the question on the screen.

Jacob: Apples if they're good. We're nearly out of bread too.

He added that he was still at Eddie's and would be back later.

The reply came before he returned to the table.

Ethan: Got it. Have fun. Tell Chris hi.

Jacob smiled. Christopher looked up. "What?" Christopher asked.

"Ethan says hi."

"Hi." He was already looking back at the screen. "Can you move the lamp again?"

Jacob put the phone away. This attempt took longer because removing the dust disturbed the card. Christopher was annoyed with the card, then with the photograph, then with Jacob when he reached toward the model before Chris had said what needed moving.

Jacob stopped. "Sorry. Which part?"

"Not the plane. The back."

"Okay."

They reset the background. The wheel remained where it should. Christopher moved the camera himself, bracing his forearm against the table so he didn't have to hold the position unsupported while he found the frame.

Jacob stayed out of the picture. When Chris took the next one, they both leaned in. The image looked almost the same as the one before lunch. That was the point. The pale speck had gone. "That's it," Christopher said. He sent it to Denny before he could find something else wrong.

Jacob sat back. There was an ease in having finished one thing together. He'd needed the afternoon more than he'd known when he arrived.

Christopher began putting the spare images in a folder. He kept the unsuccessful versions too.

"So you know what you changed?" Jacob asked.

"So I don't try it again."

"That too."

Christopher's phone lit with Denny's answer. "He likes it," he said.

"Good."

"He wants to know what I used."

Jacob glanced at the cereal box. "Tell him."

Christopher grinned and took a photograph of the whole arrangement before Jacob could start putting it away. That one contained the table, the cord, the edge of Jacob's arm, and none of the illusion they'd spent the afternoon making. Chris sent it without hesitating. Jacob laughed.

They cleared the table, slowly enough that the model and the card survived. Jacob took the lamp back. Christopher returned the plane to its safe place and left the laptop open while the copies finished saving.

Jacob carried the plates to the kitchen.

Another message arrived before he reached the sink. Christopher read it and called after him. "He can do the early one."

"The film?"

"Yeah."

Jacob put the plates down. "Okay. Tell me when you've checked with your dad, and I'll see what I can do."

Christopher was already looking toward the back of the house. "Dad?"

Eddie answered from somewhere beyond the hall.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Come and ask."

Chris saved the messages, set the phone beside the laptop, and reached for his crutches. Jacob moved the empty grocery bag off the chair beside him so it wouldn't catch when he stood, then went back to the plates. The conversation continued out of view. A time, a question about who was going, Christopher explaining that he was still arranging it. Jacob could hear enough to know he wasn't needed in the middle.

He dried his hands and looked at the picture still open on the laptop. The plane stood against a clear blue background, every trace of the clutter removed from the frame. Around the screen, ordinary life remained exactly where they'd left it. Jacob closed the empty cereal box and put it beside the card for Chris to keep.

Athena found a second set of property photographs beneath the first and put both on the counter before the realtor could begin. "These aren't the ones that went online."

"No. Those are the replacement exterior shots. The light was better on Thursday."

Athena looked from one to the other. The house appeared warmer in the new pictures, the pool a brighter blue. A chair had been moved far enough that she could see the edge of the paving it usually covered. "All right." She set them side by side. She didn't dislike the pictures. She disliked needing a moment to recognize the place from an angle she'd never stand at unless she wanted to fall into a shrub.

The realtor put her bag beside the stool, out of the route through the kitchen. "I brought the showing feedback and the revised schedule. There's one request for this evening."

"How late?"

"Seven-thirty."

"No."

The woman nodded and made a note. She'd learned not to treat Athena's first answer as the beginning of a negotiation.

"Tomorrow?"

"The window we already agreed."

"I'll offer that."

Athena poured water into two glasses. Before every showing she cleared the mail, put away personal papers, checked the bathrooms, and left early enough to avoid meeting strangers on the front walk. She was tired of making those rounds. "Tell me what they're asking," she said.

The realtor opened the folder, keeping the visitors' actual comments separate from her own impressions. The kitchen and pool had been popular; the questions concerned maintenance, utility costs, and the work after the rebuild. Athena listened for the dates she could check against her records.

"I have the records," she said. "They're in the blue folder. Copies, not my originals."

"That's what we need."

Athena brought it over. There were receipts, service information, details that had once belonged to a future she and Bobby were trying to arrange. Dates. Names. A problem resolved after three telephone calls and a fourth person finally arriving with the correct part. She could remember being furious about that part. She was glad, briefly, that there had been ordinary things to be furious about.

The realtor checked the list against the documents, asking before taking a page out. Athena gave her what could be copied and kept the rest in place. Nobody needed the unrelated note tucked behind a service receipt. She moved it to her own folder without reading it.

"There's another question about possession," the realtor said.

Athena looked up.

"If someone submits an offer, how much time would you need between an accepted agreement and handing over the property? We can state a preference, but I don't want to promise a date you haven't approved."

She rested one hand on the edge of the counter. There were several answers. The answer in boxes, the answer in money, the answer she'd give somebody asking whether she was ready. None of them could stand in for the others. "I want to see the terms," she said. "The actual dates. I'm not agreeing to be out on a day because it looks good in a conversation."

"Of course."

"And I'm not staying indefinitely either. If it works, I want it done."

The woman made another note. "Then I'll bring you the proposed timing with the rest. We can compare it properly."

They went through what remained unresolved. One interested household wanted another visit. Another had asked whether certain furnishings could be included. The request wasn't unusual. Athena still felt a small, unreasonable irritation at the idea of someone deciding they liked a chair enough to ask for it while standing in her home.

"Which furnishings?"

The realtor showed her the list.

Athena read it once. A table outside. A pair of stools. Something in the living room she hadn't decided what to do with yet. "That one isn't available." She indicated the line.

"I'll remove it."

"The others, we can discuss. Separately. I don't want them lost in a sentence about what stays with the house."

"We'll be specific."

They marked the items the realtor still needed to confirm.

The realtor took another page out of the folder. "There's also the updated description. I wanted you to see it before we changed anything."

Athena read it. Dimensions, finishes, the pool. Then a line about a new beginning that made her stop. "Take that out."

The woman followed her finger. "We can end the paragraph before it."

"Do that."

The realtor marked the sentence and read the shorter version aloud. It described the house. Athena preferred it.

"There's nothing about your family in the listing," the woman said. "And we don't give personal information to people asking about the seller."

"Keep it that way."

"We will."

Athena finished the page and found one other detail she wanted corrected, less emotional and no less worth getting right. The wording implied an item was newer than it was. She showed the realtor the date in the records. "It works. It isn't new."

"I'll change it."

"Thank you."

By the time they finished checking the other dates, the page was covered in marks.

The realtor set it aside. "I'll send you a clean version for approval."

Athena took a drink while the realtor listed questions about return visits, measuring, and bringing a contractor. "One appointment," she said. "Not somebody turning up in the morning and someone else coming back after lunch because they didn't coordinate."

"We can arrange that."

"And if they want to measure, they ask. I'm not moving my furniture for them."

The realtor nodded. "They can identify what they need before the visit. We'll confirm access."

"Good."

A buyer's plans for a different color or a different use for a room stayed separate from the work Athena might need to address before leaving.

Athena put her pen down. "That's all I'm asking. Tell me what's being asked of me. Don't tell somebody yes and then hope I'll be agreeable."

"I won't."

She believed her. Outside, a service vehicle passed with a low rumble. "All right," Athena said when it had gone. "What else?"

Afterward they walked through the rooms, locating a window covering and checking the cupboard where Athena intended to keep the remaining paperwork.

In the living room, the realtor stopped far enough from the framed photograph that she couldn't have been reaching for it. "Personal photographs can be put away for the showings if you prefer. They don't need to remain visible."

Athena looked at the frame Karen had given her. She'd seen it so often that morning she'd stopped consciously looking at it. Now Bobby's face met her from behind the glass with a familiarity the property photographs couldn't approach. "That stays where it is."

"Certainly."

"Until I take it with me."

The realtor nodded and went back to the list. She didn't soften her expression into the face people used when they wanted credit for recognizing a widow's possessions. Athena was grateful enough to dislike noticing.

She moved closer after the woman had turned toward the window. A faint line of dust showed along the top of the frame. Athena ran her thumb across it, then checked the edge of the glass for the mark she'd left. She would clean it properly later. It didn't need to be done while somebody waited.

"This covering?" the realtor asked.

Athena turned back. "Show me which line."

They finished the room. Athena opened the cupboard, checked what had already been packed, and found a small stack of glasses on the shelf she'd expected to be empty. She'd put them there herself after the party, keeping enough for ordinary use. There had been a time when empty cupboards made her reach for a task. Now they made the remaining things look deliberately chosen. "I'll need those until I leave," she said, mostly to herself.

The realtor waited.

Athena shut the door. "Not part of your list."

"Understood."

They returned to the kitchen. Outside, the pool was quiet. The last great party had left no visible damage, no permanent mark a buyer would need disclosed, just memories Athena could place precisely across the paving: Harry with the speaker, Buck at the grill, somebody laughing too loudly near the water after midnight.

She'd kept her own photograph of the morning after. The listing pictures could have the clean chairs.

The realtor asked about the next round of appointments. Athena approved two windows, rejected a third, and asked for the access arrangements in writing, including any extra visitors or contractor appointments.

"We'll keep the existing process," the woman said.

"Good."

"You don't need to be here for every visit."

"I know."

"I'm not suggesting you do."

Athena looked at her, then let herself smile a little. "I know that too."

The woman smiled back. It was easier when people allowed her to be impatient without interpreting it as evidence she'd changed her mind.

They sat for the forms. Athena read each page before initialing it and asked for an explanation where a description didn't match her understanding.

Athena photographed the agreed appointment windows and sent herself the corrected list. The realtor checked it against her own copy.

"I'll confirm the remaining answers by email," she said.

"And call if something needs an answer sooner."

"I will."

Athena set the pen beside her own copy and closed the folder.

By the time the realtor left, the folder was thinner and her own list was shorter. She walked the woman to the door, confirmed that tomorrow's appointment would be within the agreed window, and closed it behind her.

The house was quiet in the particular way it became quiet after somebody discussed it as a property. Athena picked up the two water glasses. One was almost full. She finished her own and set both beside the sink, then went back for the folder before she could leave it somewhere she'd resent finding it later.

Her phone rang while she was putting it away. May. "Hi, baby."

"Hey. You done?"

"For today."

"How was it?"

Athena leaned against the counter. "People like the pool."

"They should. It's a good pool."

"They also want to know what I'm leaving."

There was a small pause. "Do you know?"

"Some of it."

"Okay."

Athena looked toward the living room. "You don't need to come over and sort things tonight," she said.

"I wasn't offering tonight."

Athena smiled. "Good. You've got work."

"I have dinner. Then work."

"Even better."

May told her what she was making. It sounded ambitious for someone calling from a grocery aisle, and Athena asked whether she already owned the ingredient she'd just described as optional.

"No."

"Then don't buy a whole bottle for a teaspoon unless you know you'll use it."

"That's what I thought."

"You called to ask me that?"

May laughed. "Partly."

Athena closed her eyes for a moment, smiling at the ordinary answer. She could hear a cart move at the other end and someone asking to get past. May apologized, shifted, and came back to the call.

"I did want to know how it went."

"I know."

"Are they being all right?"

"They're doing their job. I'm doing mine."

"Mom."

"What?"

May's breath changed, a small laugh with no amusement in it. "Nothing. I'm glad you called it done for today."

Athena looked at the folder. "It is."

They spoke about a visit later in the week. May could come over, eat something, and take the small things she'd already said she wanted. If she changed her mind about one, she could tell Athena then.

"I don't want to take something you still need."

"You won't."

"You say that, and then you'll be eating off the one plate nobody wanted."

"I have plates."

May laughed. Athena let the sound stay with her. "Tell me how the dinner turns out," she said.

"I will."

"And eat before you start working."

"That's the plan."

They said goodbye. Athena kept the phone in her hand for another moment before putting it down. First she checked the cupboard beside the refrigerator. There were still enough plates for a meal, enough cups that a visitor wouldn't have to wait for one to be washed. She took out a bowl she'd been meaning to pack and found she wanted it for lunch. It could stay another day.

One of the smaller boxes sat on the floor nearby, its flaps folded inward rather than taped. Athena brought it to the counter and checked the contents against the short list tucked under a corner. The glasses from her mother were already wrapped. She didn't unwrap them to make sure each one was still there. She'd counted them when she put them in.

There was room on top for the serving dish she'd set aside. She wrapped it, placed it carefully, and decided against adding another thing merely because the box would take it. Someone still had to lift the box. Harry had offered to carry things later. She wasn't going to meet that offer by making every container as heavy as possible.

She wrote him a message asking when he'd be by and telling him there were two boxes she wanted moved, not a houseful of surprise work. Then she put the phone down. He could answer when he had time.

The serving dish was coming with her. The chair wasn't part of the sale. She closed the box without sealing it and left the list tucked under a flap.

At the sink, both water glasses still waited. She washed them, dried the counter, and noticed the faint line her folder had left in the dust near the corner. She wiped that too.

She could still hear May's voice asking whether she knew what she was leaving. Some of it. That had been the honest answer. Athena didn't intend to turn it into certainty before she'd had lunch. She got a soft cloth and went to the photograph. The frame was solid beneath her hands. Karen had given her something she hadn't known how to ask for, and Athena had accepted it without imagining this exact afternoon: the realtor's list on the counter, the clean space around the furniture, her daughter calling to ask about dinner while strangers considered the place they might live.

She cleaned the top edge, then the glass. Bobby's face became clearer when she tilted it away from the window's reflection. For a second she could hear the way he'd have asked whether she'd eaten. She knew the question because he'd asked it often enough in life.

She hadn't.

"All right," she said, quietly. She set the photograph back where it belonged and went to make herself something.

May arrived carrying coffee in one hand and the lid that ought to have been on it in the other. "Don't move that," she said as Ethan began clearing a space. "I'm putting it here."

He moved his notebook instead. She set the cup in the patch of shade beside the planter, put the lid on properly, and looked at the pages spread between him and Lena. "Am I interrupting?"

"We're nearly done," Lena said.

Ethan glanced at the paragraph on his screen.

"We could be nearly done," she amended.

May smiled and took the chair at the end of the table. They'd chosen the café terrace because there was room for more than one laptop and nobody had to whisper every time they disagreed.

He turned the page toward Lena. "I don't think we can say it that strongly."

"Which bit?"

"Here. The number."

She leaned in, read, and shook her head. "Then explain what you mean. You've put a question mark beside it three times."

He checked the figure legend again. Several wells from the same culture didn't become several separate donors because they occupied separate places on the plate. His draft still made the sample sound larger than it was. "I want the donor count in this sentence," he said. "Then we can talk about the technical repeats separately."

Lena scrolled back to the methods. "That's what I was asking you yesterday."

"I thought you meant remove the replicates."

"No. I meant stop making them people."

Ethan laughed, embarrassed. "Okay. Yeah."

May took a sip of coffee and opened her own work.

They changed the sentence. Lena found the same mistake farther down and opened the figure legend beside their notes. "We need to explain what the repeats do tell us. Not just what they don't."

Ethan nodded. "Variation within the setup."

"Put that in language we can defend."

Ethan stopped halfway through reading his first attempt aloud. "No." While he rewrote it, Lena traced the culture identifiers back through the methods.

May put headphones on without starting anything loud enough to reach him. Ethan noticed the small act of giving them room and went back to the sentence.

He wrote that the repeated measurements helped them assess the procedure within each preparation. "I don't want us to say it proves nothing," he said.

"We're not saying that."

"I know. This part starts to sound like it."

He showed her. Lena read it twice, then moved the sentence explaining the useful part ahead of the criticism.

"Better?"

"Yeah."

They checked the revised paragraph against the assignment and kept the new order.

Lena's phone sounded. She checked it and sent a short reply.

"You need to go?" Ethan asked.

"Soon. I told somebody I'd send this before I left."

"We can send it now."

"After we read it."

He laughed. "Right." They spent the next twenty minutes reading through the section. Ethan left the clear sentences alone and let Lena shorten an explanation he'd made twice.

"Keep that part," he said when she selected a sentence.

"Why?"

He told her. She read it again and removed only the second half. That worked better.

May's fingers stopped on her keyboard. Ethan looked up to find her reading a passage on her own screen with the kind of concentration that meant she was about to change something significant or go and buy food. "You okay?" he asked.

"Yes. I've made the introduction promise a different paper."

Lena laughed. "I've done that."

"It's a good introduction too. That's the annoying part."

Ethan leaned back. "Can you move it?"

"To the paper I'm not writing?"

"Save it somewhere."

"I am. I'm keeping the good sentence."

She copied it into another document and returned to the work in front of her. Ethan liked that she could mourn a sentence briefly and then stop making everybody else read it. He looked at his own paragraph and found another sentence that could go.

Lena read the section aloud once more. Ethan clarified a pronoun, then they saved the version with a date that would distinguish it from the other three files they'd called final. "I'm going," she said. "If I stay, I'll start again."

"I'll leave it." She looked at him. "I will."

"Read the last part before tomorrow. Don't rewrite what we've just finished."

"Okay."

Lena put the papers in her bag, said goodbye to May, and left through the tables. Ethan watched until she cleared the crowded part of the terrace, then closed the draft rather than prove she'd been right about him.

May was still working. He took his cup inside the shade and began reading the next section of the assigned material. He got through two pages. There were notes he needed to make about the conclusion and one term he wanted to check later. He wrote them down before looking at his phone. No new message. He left it beside the book.

"You expecting something?" May asked.

"Not really."

She nodded and went back to her screen. He turned the phone over, then waited until she finished the paragraph. "How was the rest of your weekend?"

"Good. We went to the market. Not the wrong day, eventually."

"You got coffee?"

"Very early coffee."

He smiled. She told him about the friend, the photographs they'd taken, the thing she'd nearly bought because it looked better on the stall than it would in her apartment. She hadn't bought it. She'd spent the money on lunch instead. Ethan asked where they'd eaten.

She paused to answer a message, then put the phone down with a different expression. "My mom's sorting things."

"The house?"

"Yeah. She asked when I'm coming over."

Ethan waited. He'd been there when the place was full of people and noise, every room holding somebody who belonged. He'd also seen Athena decide what needed doing without asking the room to approve. He didn't know what part of it was hardest for May.

"She's not asking me to do anything terrible," May said. "She's asking when I want to pick up a few things. I keep answering like she's given me an assignment."

"Do you know when?"

"Thursday, probably. I told her later in the week."

"Then Thursday sounds like an answer."

She nodded, but didn't pick the phone up yet. "I don't want to go over there and spend the whole visit looking at cupboards."

"You could eat."

May smiled faintly. "She's already offered food."

"That sounds like her."

"It does."

May looked across the terrace. Ethan waited. "I want her to do what she wants," she said. "I'm not trying to keep her there."

"I know."

"She knows too. I think I keep telling her because I don't want her worrying about me every time she puts something in a box."

Ethan turned his cup between his hands. "Does she?"

"Sometimes. She doesn't say it like that."

Ethan had heard that pause from Athena too. "You can go for dinner," he said. "You don't have to finish everything."

May nodded again. "That's what she said."

"Then I've got nothing better."

She laughed, quietly this time. "You don't need something better." He looked down, smiling.

May picked up her phone and answered. Thursday. Dinner, then the few things they'd discussed if there was time. She showed Ethan the message before sending it, not asking permission, just letting him see she'd made the plan. "That looks good," he said.

She sent it. "I keep thinking I'll have a week where everyone's settled," she admitted. "Then I can stop checking the calendar."

"There's probably still going to be a calendar."

"Unfortunately."

He laughed. She stretched her shoulders, looked at the introduction on the screen, and shut the document for a moment rather than start fixing it with the wrong part of her attention. "Thanks," she said.

"I didn't do anything."

"You listened." May leaned back in her chair. "How about you?"

"Saturday was..." Ethan looked at the book in front of him. He could have told her about the song, the coffee, Jacob at the stove while Ethan made the toast. Friday came with all of it. Jacob asking, his mouth warm against Ethan's, the moment afterward when wanting another kiss had stopped being enough to get one. "Quiet," he finished.

"That sounds good." May took the lid off her cup and reached for the phone she'd left beside her laptop.

When May closed the message to Athena, he leaned forward. "Can I see the pictures? From the market."

"Some of them are just the ground. We were walking." She found the first photograph and turned the screen toward him. There were stalls beneath a row of awnings, a dog half out of the frame, the back of somebody's head occupying most of the foreground. May moved to the next one before he could say anything. "Not that one."

He smiled. The next showed the stall she'd been telling him about, prints leaning against boxes and hanging from clips above the table. She enlarged the corner. "That," she said. "The blue one."

Ethan looked at it properly. "How big was it?"

May set the phone flat between them and held her hands apart. "About that. I thought it was smaller until he took it down. Then I was going to have to carry it all afternoon."

"On the bus?"

"Exactly." She picked the phone up again. "I liked it. I didn't like it enough for that." She moved past a picture of their lunch and found the photographs her friend had taken. "I can't decide which of these I like."

"That one." He'd answered before she'd finished moving the screen. His own phone lay dark beside the book. He'd looked at it without meaning to, and for a second the photograph in May's hand had become something he could answer without seeing.

She lowered it. "I haven't shown you the other one."

"Sorry. Show me." Ethan held out his hand, but she kept the phone for another moment.

"You can answer it," she said. "I'm not going anywhere."

"There's nothing there." The words came out flat enough that he wished he'd taken the extra second. He moved his phone away from the book. "Sorry. I'm looking. Give it here."

May passed hers over. In the first picture she was looking past the camera with her mouth slightly open. In the second she was laughing, one hand raised as though her friend had said something she meant to object to. Ethan went back to the first, then the second. "This one. The second."

May leaned over to check which he meant. "She kept telling me to stand normally. I was standing normally until she said it."

"I like it." He passed the phone back. "You look like you're having a good time."

"I was. We had to wait for somebody to finish taking pictures of the flowers before we could get out of the way. There were a lot of flowers." She showed him one more, mostly petals with a small, annoyed portion of her friend visible beyond them. Ethan laughed. May kept that one too.

They sat looking through the rest for a few minutes. The noise from the café reached them in pieces, a chair scraping, a name called twice before anybody answered. His own phone stayed dark beside the book. He left it there when May handed hers over to show him a detail he hadn't been able to see.

By the time she put it away, her coffee had gone cold. She drank anyway, made a face, and looked for the lid. Ethan passed it to her.

"Thanks." She fitted it back on, then looked at the document still open in front of her. "I need to finish this before I start disliking it again."

Ethan moved his book to give her laptop more room. She brought the screen closer and began reading, her lips moving briefly at a sentence she was trying to hear. He could have put his headphones on. He liked sitting there with her.

He found the place he'd marked and wrote a question in the margin. Across from him, May began typing more quickly.

When she stopped, she turned the laptop slightly. "Can I read you this?"

"Yeah."

She read the revised introduction. One sentence carried two different ideas; Ethan asked which she wanted the reader to follow.

May stared at the screen, then selected a clause. "That's it."

"You don't need to delete it if—"

"I'm moving it."

He smiled. She moved it, read the paragraph again, and sounded less irritated at the end.

Ethan's phone vibrated while he was making another note. Jacob had sent a photograph from the grocery shelf, two versions of something they'd talked about buying and couldn't remember the name of.

Jacob: Which one was it?

Ethan recognized the jar. He answered, added that they already had the other ingredient, and set the phone beside his book.

They stayed until the shade moved off the table and May had to leave. She saved her work, checked that she had the bag she'd arrived with, and squeezed Ethan's shoulder on the way past. "Eat something," she said.

"I did."

She looked at the empty space beside his cup.

"Earlier."

"Eat something else."

He laughed. "Okay."

After she left, he went inside for a sandwich, came back to the table, and finished the section Lena had asked him to read. His phone lay beside the closed notebook when he was done. Jacob hadn't sent anything else. Ethan put it in his pocket, zipped the bag, and picked up his cup before going home.

Jacob put three empty boxes on the rug and discovered that two of them had the same lid. He looked from one to the other, then at the third box.

"What?" Ethan asked.

"Nothing. I've bought this wrong."

Ethan came over from the kitchen and tried the spare lid on the larger box. It left a gap. He turned it once, then lifted it off again.

They'd bought the boxes to clear the existing partition for the supplier's assessment. Jacob had already warned Chimney that making room for the work didn't mean emptying the whole loft. Now he was trying to follow his own advice.

Ethan set the lid beside the others. "We only need two right now."

"I'll take the other back."

"Tomorrow."

"I know." He hadn't meant it sharply. Ethan looked at him, then went to get the books from the small stack beside the island.

Jacob watched him cross the room. A week ago he would have known how to leave that look alone. Tonight he could still remember Ethan's eyes opening after the kiss, and an ordinary glance had become something he could spend too much time trying to read. Ethan wasn't avoiding him. Jacob wanted more than being unavoided. He hadn't found a useful way to say that.

He picked up the first box and put it on the island, where they could sort things without bending over the rug. Ethan brought the books. "The lower shelf, I think," Ethan said. "If we move the cables."

Jacob looked toward the shelf. The cables occupied a shallow basket beside two notebooks and a small collection of things whose usefulness neither of them wanted to test by throwing them out. "I don't know which ones we use."

"Then let's check." Ethan set the books down.

They sorted the basket on the floor. Jacob identified one cable by fitting it to a device in his room, and Ethan put aside another that belonged to something he no longer owned.

Ethan had found three charging plugs and was comparing the labels. Jacob watched his thumb move along the tiny print, the familiar concentration in his face. He could remember that thumb against his hand on the sofa. "This one?" Ethan asked.

Jacob looked at the plug instead of his fingers. "Keep it. It works with that." He indicated the cable Ethan was about to put aside. They checked it before deciding, which saved them getting rid of the wrong thing.

At the bottom of the basket, Ethan found an old adapter he'd been looking for. "There it is."

Jacob looked at it. "Does it work?"

They tested it. The little light came on. Ethan put it with the device it belonged to and took the empty basket to the counter. "Can we keep this for the ones we actually use?"

"Yeah."

Jacob moved two of the cables out of his pile and put them with the things to store. Ethan went back to the shelf.

There were books behind the basket, not many, enough that moving one brought a thinner volume sliding forward. Ethan caught it against his wrist. A folded page slipped out. Jacob picked it up before it reached the floor and handed it back without opening it.

"Thanks." Ethan tucked it into the sketchbook, then stopped and looked at the open page. "I forgot about this." He turned it toward Jacob. A pencil drawing of steps and the bottom of a doorway occupied one side, the upper part unfinished. There were small notes about light down the margin, then an entirely unrelated list of things Ethan had needed to buy.

"On campus?" Jacob asked.

"Yeah. I was waiting for somebody." Ethan studied the unfinished doorway. "I had time to do the bottom half."

Jacob liked the worn edge of the step, the way the shadow showed its shape without an outline around every surface. He said so.

Ethan glanced up. "That's the bit I liked."

The upper half was still blank. Ethan didn't seem bothered by it. Jacob had seen him spend an hour on a paragraph he wanted right.

Ethan closed the sketchbook and set it beside the reading chair, somewhere he might actually open it again. Jacob left it there instead of putting it with the books they were about to pack.

Ethan reached for the next stack, his arm brushing Jacob's as he passed. Jacob looked at the space between the chair and the lamp instead of following the movement.

Half an hour later, Ethan took the books to the shelf. Jacob went to the kitchen for water and found the counter still covered in what they'd moved to make room on the island: a notebook, the installation folder, loose pages, two old envelopes, a card Ethan had been using to mark something.

He separated the envelopes. One could be recycled. The other contained information they needed to keep. He put it with the folder, gathered the loose pages, and carried the stack to the clear end of the shelf.

Ethan was kneeling beside the books, moving a plant just far enough that its leaves didn't press against the new arrangement. "Can you pass that?"

Jacob passed him the small pot, then went to rinse the glasses.

Five minutes later, Ethan asked, "Where are the pages?"

"On the shelf."

"Which pages?"

Jacob turned off the faucet. "The ones on the counter."

Ethan looked at the stack, then back at the place where it had been. "You put them all together?"

"They were loose."

"They were in two piles."

Jacob dried his hands. "I didn't throw anything out."

"I didn't say you did."

Ethan picked the stack up. There were readings in it, notes, the page with the frame measurements, something Jacob recognized from the program information. Jacob had checked before moving them. He hadn't checked which order they belonged in. "I was using those," Ethan said.

"You said we were clearing the counter."

"For the boxes. Not mixing everything up."

Jacob felt his shoulders tighten. "Okay. I thought I was helping."

Ethan stopped looking through the papers. "I know. I still need to know where they are."

"They're right there." He heard it after he'd said it: the impatience, the insistence on the answer he could defend instead of the problem Ethan was showing him. He set the dish towel on the counter.

Ethan put the stack down carefully. "You could've asked."

"Yeah." Jacob looked at the two places on the counter where the piles had been. He could remember gathering them, pleased to have cleared something. Now Ethan was lifting one page at a time, turning each over to find the notes on the back. "I didn't mean to make more work."

"I know." Ethan laid the measurements beside the installation folder and returned to the readings. "I'm annoyed about the pages, Jacob. That's it."

Jacob wanted to take the answer as it was. Ethan was close enough to pass him the next sheet, and Jacob couldn't tell whether reaching for it would be another thing he'd decided without asking. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just leave them a second." Ethan was checking a number in the corner. "I need to see what I've got."

Jacob stepped back toward the sink. He'd almost reached it when Ethan looked up. "You don't have to go anywhere."

"I'm giving you room." Jacob stayed by the sink.

"I meant the papers." Ethan pointed to the stack he'd just put down. "Leave them. I wasn't telling you to move."

"Right." Jacob came back. "I should've asked before I moved anything," he said. "I'm sorry."

Ethan let out a breath and pushed one page toward him. "This one. These go together. The others are next week." He turned the sheet over so Jacob could see the small numbers, then took out another. This time Jacob waited for him to finish explaining before he touched it.

They sorted them side by side. Jacob found a page with no number and asked rather than guessing. Ethan checked it against the reading, wrote a small mark in the corner, and passed it back. The papers began to make sense in a way they hadn't when Jacob was only trying to get them off the counter. He left his pile where Ethan could reach it.

When they were finished, Ethan put one pile on his notebook and the other inside a folder. "I shouldn't have left them where we were working," he said.

"You live here." Jacob hadn't meant to answer so quickly. The folder was still open between them.

Ethan looked straight at him. "So do you."

"I know." He'd believed him with only tape on the floor, no doors or bed, his things still at Eddie's. He looked at the shelves they'd cleared tonight and wished that were the only answer he'd come back to wanting.

"I just meant I could've moved them first," Ethan said. "You don't have to find somewhere for every piece of paper before you can sit down."

"I wanted it clear." Jacob stopped there, before he could make the intention into another defense. "And I should've said that."

Ethan nodded. "Yeah." He closed the folder.

For a second Jacob had the other question ready. Do you wish I hadn't? Ethan kept his hand on the closed folder, waiting. Jacob turned toward the boxes. "Want that one for the course stuff?"

Ethan considered it. "Not all of it. I'll forget what's in there. Just the books I don't need this week."

They started again. This time Jacob asked before moving the notebook. Ethan took it upstairs himself and came back with the books he actually wanted stored.

They put the heavier ones at the bottom. The box didn't need to be full to be difficult to carry. Jacob tested it before adding more, and Ethan watched him long enough to say they could stop there.

"I can lift it."

"I know. I have to be able to move it too."

Jacob looked at the books, then took two out. Ethan put them beside the smaller box.

They chose an indoor place for both where the installer's route would remain clear, once they were finished sorting. The mismatched lid went with the receipt by the door, ready to return rather than waiting in the middle of the room until somebody tripped over it.

Before moving the boxes, Jacob found the marker and wrote the first label. The last words ran together. He held it toward Ethan. "Can you read that?"

Ethan leaned closer. "Books. Not this week?"

"Yeah."

Ethan held his hand out for the pen. Jacob gave it to him, and Ethan wrote the label again in plain capitals. He checked with Jacob before sticking it on the box.

Jacob could read it from where he stood. They checked the contents of the second box together. One of the books still had Ethan's pencil in it. Ethan took the pencil out, looked at the marked page, and decided he wanted the book left out too.

Jacob waited while he found another place for it. "Anything else before I close it?" Jacob asked.

Ethan looked once more. "No. That's good."

They put the lids on the two partly filled boxes. Ethan took the smaller one to the terrace table while Jacob brought the other. They left them there while they finished the shelf.

On the way back inside, Ethan stopped to straighten the chair Jacob had moved. Jacob waited at the bottom of the steps instead of trying to pass him. When Ethan turned, he said, "Nearly there."

"Yeah." Jacob wanted to finish what they'd agreed to do and eat beside him afterward.

The lamp had moved while Ethan rearranged the shelf. Jacob reached for it, stopped, and asked where he wanted it.

"Back where it was, I think."

He put it there. Ethan stepped back, looked at the room, and tilted his head. "Maybe closer to the chair."

Jacob moved it an inch.

"Yeah."

The light reached the chair. Jacob let go of the lamp as Ethan went past him. "Hungry?" Ethan asked.

"Yeah."

They went to the kitchen. Jacob took the plates, and Ethan got a container of the curry they'd frozen.

Ethan reached past him for the pan. Jacob took it when Ethan passed it over and put it on the stove.

They ate at the island because the table outside had become a place for the boxes while they sorted. They would bring them in later. For now the night air came through the open terrace door, cool enough that Jacob could feel it against the back of his neck.

Ethan told Jacob about the work he and Lena had finished, the sentence he'd kept defending because he thought she meant something she didn't.

"You worked it out?" Jacob asked.

"Eventually. We were both right about different parts." Ethan explained what they'd changed. Jacob could follow the problem, but couldn't find another question when Ethan finished.

They talked about the supplier's visit and which afternoon Chimney could help. When Ethan suggested waiting for the assessment before moving anything else, Jacob agreed.

After dinner they took the boxes off the terrace. Ethan held the door while Jacob came down the two steps with the heavier one, then carried the second himself. They put them where they'd agreed, not in Jacob's room simply because it was the space about to change.

The common area looked only slightly different. A clearer shelf. A basket with fewer cables. A lamp that reached the chair properly. Ethan stood beside Jacob, looking at it. "Better," he said.

Jacob nodded.

Ethan moved away. "Want to put something on?" he asked.

"Yeah." Jacob went to the sofa and took his usual end. Ethan sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched while he found the remote. Jacob shifted to give him room. Ethan moved with him, then stopped.

"You don't have to sit on the arm," Ethan said.

Jacob looked down at the edge of the cushion beneath him. "I wasn't trying to." He moved back from the arm.

Ethan held the remote against his knee. "I was fine where I was."

"Okay." Jacob stayed still when Ethan leaned back. Their shoulders met again. On the screen, a preview started loudly enough that Ethan turned it down, and Jacob found himself grateful for the interruption. Ethan's free hand lay between them while he looked through the choices. Jacob watched the screen.

Karen had put the folder in her bag before breakfast. She checked for it again outside the courtroom, lifting the corner past her keys until she could see the blue spine.

"Still there?" Hen asked.

"Yes."

Hen didn't smile at her. That was considerate, and sufficiently unlike her that Karen looked up. Her wife stood with one hand in her pocket, the other resting against Mara's shoulder. She'd taken her hand out of that pocket four times since they'd sat down.

"What have you got in there?"

Hen pulled out a folded tissue. "Nothing."

"Okay."

Karen moved her bag off the seat beside her. Denny sat down, knees spreading immediately into the narrow space between their row and the next. He'd grown again. She knew because the pants they'd bought for this morning had needed letting down before he'd worn them anywhere.

Mara stayed beside Hen. She had chosen a dress with pockets and had demonstrated both of them at breakfast, carrying a hair tie in one and a small smooth stone in the other. Karen could see the outline of the stone through the fabric now.

"You can sit," Hen told her.

"I know."

"All right."

Through the closed door came a brief scrape of furniture. Mara tipped her head toward it, listening, and Karen resisted the urge to tell her again what would happen. They'd explained it. They'd answered questions over dinner, in the car, halfway through brushing teeth. If she had another question, Karen could wait for it.

The hallway smelled of floor cleaner and somebody's coffee. Farther down, a toddler dragged the heel of one shoe along the tiles while his father tried to fasten the other. The sound caught, stopped, started. Karen watched him for a moment, grateful for something ordinary to look at.

Her phone vibrated against the folder.

Maddie: Thinking of all four of you. We'll see you later. ❤️

She read it, put the phone away, then took it back out to send a heart. There were other messages waiting. She wasn't answering all of them in this hallway.

Denny leaned forward. "You've got something on your sleeve."

Karen turned her wrist. A pale streak marked the cuff of her jacket.

"Toothpaste," Hen said.

"How?"

"You were leaning on the sink."

Karen looked at her wife. "You saw that happen?"

"I saw you leaning on the sink. I didn't know it was loaded."

Mara bent to inspect the sleeve. "It's dry."

"Thank you." Karen rubbed at it with her thumb, making the streak larger. Denny produced a paper napkin from his pocket, looked at the crumbs inside it, and folded it shut again.

Hen offered the tissue.

"You need that," Karen said.

"I've got more."

Of course she did. Karen took it. Mara watched the faint white mark disappear, then sat between them with her knees together and her shoes planted as far back beneath the chair as she could reach. Hen sat on her other side. Denny shifted his leg out of the way without being asked.

For a little while, they waited. Karen could hear the ventilation above them. There was a loose edge to its hum, a small periodic vibration she couldn't locate. At work she would have noticed it, made a note, returned to whatever calculation was in front of her. Here she found herself waiting for the rattle each time it stopped.

Everything they needed was in the folder. Karen had lain awake anyway, listening to Hen breathe beside her. At two, Mara had gone to the bathroom. The door had clicked, water had run, and then her bedroom door had closed again. Karen had stayed where she was.

She wanted a lifetime of being able to hear that door close.

"Mom?"

"Mm?" Karen looked down.

"Do they keep the papers?" Mara asked.

"Some of them. We'll have copies of what we need."

"The signed one?"

"Yes."

Mara worked her thumb around the stone through her pocket. "Can I see it?"

"Of course."

"After."

"After," Karen agreed.

Hen's hand found Karen's along the back of Mara's chair. Their fingers fit awkwardly around the hard edge. Neither moved them.

Denny took out his phone, checked the time, and put it away. He'd asked at breakfast whether he could take pictures, and Karen had told him they would find out what was allowed. He hadn't asked again. Now she could see him studying the courtroom door, ready to remember. "Your collar's folded under," she said.

He reached for the wrong side. Mara turned toward him and pointed. "Here."

"I got it."

"You didn't." She unfolded it with two fingers before he could duck away. Denny rolled his eyes, but when she sat back he left it alone.

Karen looked down at their hands, one brown knuckle still hooked around Hen's finger. She'd spent so long making sure there was a next step that the absence of another thing to arrange felt almost physical. There would be lunch and people at the house and a cake Mara had changed her mind about twice.

But this morning had a finish.

Denny leaned closer to Mara. "I finished it."

She looked at him. "The whole thing?"

"Except the back. You have to tell me what you want there."

Karen glanced over. "Finished what?"

"A cover," he said. "For her picture book."

"It's not a picture book." Mara's voice rose enough that she looked down the hall, then lowered it. "It's for pictures."

"That's what I meant."

He took his phone out again and showed her something on the screen. Karen could see blocks of color, a space left empty in the middle. Mara studied it, her head nearly touching his shoulder. "The yellow's different."

"On the screen. It prints darker."

"You checked?"

"Yeah."

There were photographs on phones and in frames all through their house. Mara had asked for some she could put in an album herself, which had sent Karen looking through hundreds of pictures for the few specific ones their daughter remembered. Denny had taken over making the cover after watching her fight a template that kept cropping everybody's heads. Karen had known he was helping. She hadn't known he'd finished.

"Can we put today in it?" Mara asked.

"That's why I left the space." He pointed, then drew his hand back so she could see. "If you want."

Mara nodded. "I do."

He let her look a little longer before locking the phone. Karen kept her hands on her knees. She wanted to touch his face, which would have been a poor reward for behaving like the older brother he was.

Hen leaned forward instead. "Will you show me when we get home?"

"Okay."

"Before everybody gets there."

Denny looked at Mara, leaving it to her.

"We can," she said.

Karen caught Hen watching them. Her wife's glasses had slipped low on her nose. She pushed them up, swallowed, and looked toward the door. "I'm going to need another one of those," Karen said quietly.

Hen passed her a fresh tissue without looking down.

The door opened. A woman stepped into the hallway and called their name. Hen stood first, then waited while Mara got up. Karen lifted her bag and checked the seat beneath it. Denny was already moving toward the door when Mara caught his sleeve. "Wait."

He stopped. She looked at Karen, then Hen, making certain of the arrangement without saying what she wanted it to be. "We're right here," Karen said.

They went in together. The room was smaller than Mara seemed to have expected. Karen saw her look toward the bench, then the chairs, and release a little air through her nose. There were no spectators arranged behind them, no television-sized distance to cross. A clerk directed them where to sit. Karen settled her bag beside her feet with the folder facing up.

The judge greeted Mara first, his voice warm and matter-of-fact. "Good morning."

"Morning," Mara said.

"You've brought your family."

She nodded, then glanced at Karen as if to check whether a nod would do. Karen nodded back.

There were introductions, a few practical explanations. Hen answered a question and cleared her throat at the end of her own name. Karen kept her hands flat against her knees. She was listening carefully enough to remember every sentence and knew she probably wouldn't.

The proceedings moved through the facts of their family in an order that belonged to the court. Names, confirmations, the documents already before the judge. Karen answered when she was asked. She heard Hen's voice beside her, firmer now. Denny sat still in the chair beyond Mara, his phone out of sight.

None of the questions asked Karen to explain what loving this child had cost or earned her. She was grateful for that.

When the questions came to the commitment they were making, Karen looked up from the papers. She listened to the whole question and answered clearly. Beside her, Hen did the same.

Mara watched them both. Karen met her eyes. Then Denny shifted in his chair, his shoe catching the leg with a small squeak, and Mara looked toward him. The ordinary interruption loosened something in Karen's chest.

When the judge spoke to Mara again, he gave her time to answer.

She looked at the edge of his desk. "Is it okay if I don't know what to say?"

"That's okay."

Her fingers came out of her pocket. The stone stayed inside. "Okay."

Karen felt Hen shift beside her, trying to sit with more feeling than the chair seemed built to hold.

The judge asked about Denny. Mara looked straight at her brother this time. "He's fifteen."

"I am," Denny confirmed, and the corner of his mouth moved.

"And how's that going?"

Mara considered him. "Mostly good."

The clerk laughed softly. Denny leaned back in his chair, accepting the assessment with a dignity that lasted until Mara smiled at him. Then he smiled too, quick and private, and Karen had to look at the desk.

She'd thought she would watch the pen. In all the versions of this morning she'd imagined, there had been a precise second she could hold on to: the point touching paper, a name becoming permanent under someone else's hand. When it happened, she was looking at Mara. Their daughter had lifted her chin to listen, her lips parted slightly, all her attention on what the judge was saying.

The adoption was granted.

There were words on either side of it. Karen heard them. She could feel the shape of the room, Hen's knee against hers, the strap of her bag pressing into her ankle. But those were the words she would remember without having to ask anyone afterward.

Mara turned toward Hen. "Now?"

Hen pressed the tissue beneath her glasses. "Now."

Karen put an arm around Mara when she leaned into the space between their chairs. She didn't try to pull her all the way over. Hen's hand came down on Mara's back, and for a few seconds their daughter was held between them, her dress bunched beneath Karen's palm. Denny touched her shoulder. Mara reached back without looking and found his hand. Karen's eyes burned. She had no useful interest in stopping them.

"Congratulations," the judge said.

"Thank you." Hen's voice caught. She tried again, smiling now. "Thank you."

There was room for photographs. Denny asked before he took his phone out, then handed it to the clerk when she offered. Karen stood and smoothed the front of her jacket. Mara stayed tucked against Hen until Denny held out an arm. "Come here. You're blocking Mom."

"Which one?"

"Both, somehow."

Karen laughed before she could help it. The first picture caught that: her head turned toward them, Hen smiling at Mara, Denny trying to make everybody fit. They took another when everyone was looking, and one more because Hen wasn't willing to trust that she'd kept her eyes open.

Mara asked if she could see. The clerk brought the phone close enough for her to inspect. Mara swiped carefully, studying the pictures in order. Karen watched her find the first one and stop. "That one's good," Mara said.

"Your brother's looking at the ceiling," Hen said.

"I'm looking at you," Denny said.

"I like that one," Mara repeated.

"Then we'll keep it," Karen said.

They thanked the judge, the clerk, the people whose ordinary working morning had made room for the largest thing in theirs. Karen took the papers she was given and listened to the explanation of what came next. She asked one question because she hadn't taken in the answer the first time.

Hen waited with a hand against the small of Karen's back while the clerk repeated the instructions. Karen put the papers into their sleeve.

Then they were in the hallway again. The ventilation still rattled. The toddler had gone. Somebody else occupied the chairs where they'd been sitting, a woman holding a cardigan against her chest while another adult checked a phone. Mara touched the folder. "Can I?"

"Let's sit for a minute." They found an empty bench near the end of the hall. Karen took the papers out, keeping them supported against the folder, and showed Mara the page. Hen sat on her other side. Denny remained standing, bent forward enough to see.

Mara followed the printed lines without putting a finger on them. She found her name, read past it, returned. "Here?"

"That's right."

"And that's the signature?"

Karen showed her. For a moment Mara said nothing. Her hair had caught beneath her collar at the back. Karen lifted it free, and Mara leaned a little into the touch, still looking at the paper.

"Can we put it somewhere that doesn't get food on it?"

"Absolutely."

"Because the counter—"

"We won't leave it on the counter," Hen said. "We'll make a safe copy you can look at whenever you want, too."

Mara nodded. Karen put the page back into its sleeve and let her help close the folder.

Denny's stomach made a noise. He looked down at it, offended.

"Breakfast was early," Hen said.

"I know."

"We've got snacks in the car."

"I know that too."

Mara laughed, the sound breaking out of her before she could contain it. Denny looked at her, and Karen saw him decide not to defend himself. He sat on the edge of the bench instead, crowding them until Hen shifted over.

They could leave. There was nothing keeping them here. Karen stayed long enough to put her phone on silent before the messages started arriving in earnest.

Hen looked across Mara's head. "You okay?"

Karen nodded. Her mouth wasn't steady enough for anything ambitious.

"Me too," Hen said.

Mara took the stone out of her pocket and turned it in her hands. It was gray, one white line running through it, nothing Karen would have noticed on a sidewalk. She'd found it somewhere and kept it. "Do you want me to hold that while you get your cardigan on?" she asked.

"No, I can do it." She put it back in her pocket, stood, and pushed one arm into the wrong sleeve. Hen helped with the twisted fabric when Mara held it out. Denny passed Karen her bag.

They walked toward the elevators without hurrying. At the doors, Mara reached for Karen's hand. It wasn't the first time she'd done that. Karen knew the feel of those fingers, the way Mara's thumb tucked under hers when she wanted a firmer grip. She closed her hand around them and pressed the button with the other.

Hen was checking the photographs again. She showed Denny the first one, and he made an objection Karen couldn't quite hear. Hen's laugh filled the little space in front of the doors.

"No posting until we've asked," Karen reminded them.

"I wasn't going to." Denny put his phone away. "Can I send it to Chris?"

Karen looked at Mara. "That one's okay," Mara said. "Not the one where I'm blinking."

"Everybody's got a blinking one," Hen said.

"I don't want that one."

"Then not that one," Karen said.

The elevator arrived. They let two people step out, then moved inside, Mara keeping Karen's hand until the doors shut. The floor indicator changed slowly above them. "We're still getting the cake?" Mara asked.

"We're still getting the cake."

"Even if there are snacks."

"The snacks won't interfere with the cake."

Mara accepted this. Denny pressed his lips together, fighting another smile, and Karen could feel one starting in her own face.

Karen stood in the elevator with her wife and their children, the folder safe beneath her arm. When the doors opened, Hen held them while Denny went ahead to look for the exit. Mara let go of Karen's hand to catch up with him.

"Wrong way," she said.

He stopped, looked at the signs, and turned. Karen walked beside Hen into the morning light at the end of the hall, watching both of them go.

The cake box wouldn't fit through the kitchen doorway while Ethan was holding it sideways.

"Turn," Maddie said from behind him.

"I'm trying. There's a—"

"Turn you."

He turned his whole body, cleared the frame, and nearly put the cake on the spot Karen had just wiped. She moved a stack of plates out of his way before he could decide whether that meant he should wait.

"Here's good."

Ethan lowered the box. "I didn't tilt it."

"I watched," Maddie said.

He looked back at her. Nash was asleep against her, one cheek turned into the soft carrier, his fist tucked beside his chin. She'd managed the door, the baby, and Ethan's lack of spatial judgment without putting down the bag hanging from her wrist. He took the bag. "What's this?"

"His things. Not the fridge."

"I wasn't going to put the baby's things in the fridge." She looked at the open refrigerator behind him. "I was getting out of the way."

"Okay."

Karen's laugh came from the other end of the counter. Ethan shut the refrigerator, set the bag where Maddie pointed, and looked for something useful he could do without receiving another instruction.

The house already smelled of warm bread and something smoky from outside. Hen passed the kitchen window with a plate in her hand, speaking to Eddie over her shoulder. She was smiling. Ethan could see that before he heard the end of whatever she'd said.

Mara came in carrying four forks. "That's it?"

"That's it." He lifted his hands from the cake box. "You want to check?"

"Not yet." She put the forks down precisely beside the plates. "When everybody's here."

"Okay."

She looked at the box again before leaving. Through the doorway, Jee asked her a question about balloons. Mara answered in the patient, slightly authoritative voice Ethan remembered hearing from himself when he'd been old enough to know more than somebody else.

He'd seen the photograph from the court on Maddie's phone. Hen laughing, Karen turned toward her children, Mara standing close to Denny with her whole face open. There were more orderly versions. Maddie had shown him that one first.

Karen reached across the counter for the foil.

"Did she like it?" he asked.

"The picture?"

"Yeah."

"She chose it." Karen tore off a sheet, folded it over a dish, and pressed the edges down. "Denny's making her an album."

"That's nice."

"He's been pretending not to work on it all week."

Ethan grinned. Karen looked toward the doorway where Mara had gone, held the edge of the foil between her fingers, and smiled. He left her that moment and took the plates outside.

Jacob was on the far side of the table, arguing with Buck about where to put a dish. His sleeves were pushed up unevenly. One had fallen almost to his wrist; the other showed his forearm, a little flour clinging near the cuff.

"It's hot," Buck said.

"That's why I'm putting this under it."

"That one's too small."

Jacob picked up the wider trivet Buck was holding out. "Thanks."

"You could've said you needed it."

"You were in the kitchen."

Buck looked at Ethan. "Was I?"

"For a while."

"Right." He gave up trying to reconstruct the trip and took the plates. "These going here?"

Jacob looked past him at Ethan, his mouth still curved from the exchange. It happened too quickly for Ethan to prepare for it. He smiled back, felt it catch somewhere under his ribs, and went to find the napkins.

A week since the party. He didn't want to measure everything against that. There were other things in a week: class, the revised analysis he'd finally got through, May's paper, the supplier kneeling beside the door track on Thursday while Chimney held a flashlight. And this. Four people coming home from a courthouse to the house they already shared, with a blue folder put somewhere safe and everyone else arriving with too much food. Ethan wanted to be here for it.

He found a place beside Christopher, who was showing Denny a video on his phone. They'd turned the screen away from the sun. Ethan could make out the edge of a model plane, a blue background, then a sudden blur.

"That's the lamp," Christopher said.

"Why did it move?"

"I knocked the table."

"Keep that bit."

"I'm cutting it."

Denny watched it again. "It looks like it's actually crashing."

"It wasn't supposed to crash."

"I know, but—"

"What are you making?" Ethan asked.

They both looked up. Christopher paused the video with his thumb. "A stop-motion thing. Maybe."

"With the plane?"

"And whatever Denny makes."

"I haven't picked yet." Denny took a drink, still looking at the screen. "Something that doesn't need a hundred tiny pieces of wire."

"You don't have to use wire."

"How else does it stay up?"

Christopher started explaining. Ethan listened until the conversation went back to an argument they clearly wanted to have without him, then moved the bowl of chips within reach and went to help Hen carry the next dish.

On his way through the house, Mara stopped him by the doorway. She had a small album open on the low table, one hand holding down a page that wanted to spring shut. "Do you have the one from the beach?"

"Which one?"

"Where the bird's behind Harry."

Ethan crouched beside her. "I might. Can I look?"

She shifted the album so he could see. There were empty sleeves at the back and a few photographs already in place, some set sideways because she'd wanted them larger. He took out his phone and scrolled far enough back to find the beach, stopping at a picture of water that had caught the sun.

Mara leaned closer. "Not that one."

"I know. There are about forty."

"Why?"

"I liked the water."

She accepted this without much interest and waited while he found Harry. The bird was farther from him than Ethan remembered, a pale blur with its wings lifted. Mara pointed. "That."

"I'll send it to Karen."

"And this one."

The next photograph had caught Hen at the edge of the shallows, reaching down toward Mara on the board. Water shone along both their arms. Ethan held the phone still until Mara had finished looking. "You want it bigger?"

"For here." She showed him an empty sleeve. "Mom said we can get more pages if it gets full."

"Then I'd get it bigger."

"Okay."

He sent both pictures before he forgot. Mara released the page, closed the album, and ran her palm over the cover Denny had made. Ethan could see the place they'd left for today's photograph. "He did a good job," he said.

She looked toward the window, where Denny was still talking to Christopher. "Don't tell him I said that."

"I won't."

"You can say you said it."

Ethan smiled. "Okay."

She took the album with her when she went to find Karen. He stood slowly, one knee stiff from the way he'd crouched, and slid his phone back into his pocket. The photographs had been on it for weeks. He was glad she'd asked.

Jacob joined him at the back door. Ethan glanced at the flour near his cuff. "What were you making?"

"Bread." Jacob brushed at his sleeve. "Karen let me do the part that couldn't go wrong."

"It can go wrong," Karen called from inside.

Ethan laughed. Jacob looked toward the kitchen as Hen reached the door with a large bowl, then stepped back to let her through. Ethan took it from her before she had to negotiate the door.

"There's more in the kitchen," she said. "And don't let Buck put everything on one end."

"I can hear you," Buck called.

"Good."

They got the food onto the table without another dispute about distribution. Athena arrived with a covered dish and a look that sent Buck straight toward her before she'd asked for help. May followed with Jee beside her, listening to a story that seemed to require both hands and several pauses for breath.

Chimney came through the doorway carrying a stack of cups. Maddie had settled into a chair where she could sit back with Nash. When Ethan caught her eye, she tipped her head toward a clear place for the cups instead of asking him whether he'd eaten. That would come later.

Hen called everybody in close enough to hear her. Mara stood by Karen, one hand hidden behind her back. Denny leaned against the chair beside them. "We're not doing a long speech," Hen said.

"You said that already," Mara reminded her.

"I'm telling them." Hen smiled down at her. "We're really glad you're here. All of you. Thank you for helping us celebrate."

Karen's hand moved onto Hen's shoulder. Across the table, Maddie's face had softened, and Chimney looked down at Jee, who was trying to see what Mara had behind her back.

"Can we eat now?" Denny asked.

Hen looked at him. "Yes."

The movement started all at once: chairs sliding, dishes passed, somebody needing a serving spoon that had been beside the plate a second ago. Mara brought her hand forward. She was holding a folded sheet of paper, and when Karen took it, Ethan saw the bright yellow edge of a photograph on the front. He looked away before he could read anything inside. It wasn't for the table.

Jacob passed him a plate.

"Thanks."

"The peppers are at that end." He pointed with his chin. "Before you get trapped."

Ethan made it around the table and came back with more than he'd meant to take. Jacob had found a chair beside Maddie, and Ethan sat on his other side, leaving the corner clear for people to pass.

Jee appeared beside his chair with her cup held in both hands. He moved his plate back before she could put it down on the edge. "You need more?" Ethan asked.

"Just a little."

He poured water until she told him to stop, then put the pitcher where she couldn't catch it with her elbow. She inspected the level, took a careful drink, and went back to Mara without thanking him or spilling any.

Maddie watched her go. "She's been doing that all day."

"What?"

"Following her."

Ethan looked over. Mara had moved her chair to make room. The first mouthful was too hot. He tried not to react and failed.

"Slow down," Maddie said without looking at him.

Jacob passed him his own cup of water. Ethan swallowed and drank. Cold water, Jacob beside him, the immediate attention when he'd needed something. He'd had that on Friday too. He'd been steadied, given water, looked after. He hadn't been kissed again.

"Mine's there," he said, nodding toward his own cup.

"You weren't reaching for it." Jacob's answer was quiet enough to stay between them beneath the conversation. He hadn't taken the cup back.

Ethan drank once more, then set it beside Jacob's plate. "Thanks." He picked up his fork again. The food had cooled enough to eat, and Mara was laughing at something Jee had told her. He turned toward the sound.

Jacob turned to Maddie when she asked him about Thursday's visit. He explained the door track, the replacement seals, what the installer could improve without replacing the whole partition. Chimney joined in from the end of the table, correcting the time he could come Sunday rather than any of the details.

"Not first thing," he said. "I promised Jee pancakes."

"You promised me too," Maddie said.

"I know. I've got a list."

Ethan ate while they talked. It was easier when Jacob's attention wasn't on him. He could look at the line of his jaw, the way he listened with his head slightly inclined, and then he could make himself stop before looking became all he was doing.

Athena asked him a question about class. He answered it, then found himself explaining the revision Lena had helped him catch, and stopped before he turned a party into a discussion of sampling.

"That's good," she said. "You caught it."

"Someone caught it."

"You fixed it."

"Yeah." He smiled. "Eventually."

Beside him, Jacob had gone quiet enough to listen. Ethan felt the change without turning toward it.

At the other end of the table, Mara was negotiating with Jee over which balloon could come inside later. She pointed out that Jee could take one home. Jee immediately wanted the one tied to Mara's chair. Karen watched the negotiation for perhaps ten seconds before saying, "There are extras in the kitchen." Neither child appeared interested in that solution.

Hen sat back with her plate balanced on one knee, laughing at something Eddie had said. The sound made Karen look over. Ethan watched Karen catch her wife's eye across the table and stay there for a second, her expression open in a way he didn't often get to see when she was managing a room. Then Mara asked for more bread, and Karen passed the basket.

After lunch, Denny brought out a small speaker. He had apparently been given responsibility for the music and was taking it seriously enough to object when Buck suggested something. "It's already playing," Denny said.

"I'm saying after this."

"There's a line."

Buck looked ready to ask for access to the line. Eddie put a dish in his hands and sent him toward the kitchen.

Ethan followed with the empty bowl. At the sink he found Jacob rinsing utensils, his shirt darkened near one hip where he'd leaned against the wet counter. "You don't have to wash all of it," Ethan said.

"I'm not." Jacob moved the bowl to the clear section beside him. "Just making somewhere to put things."

"Right." Ethan picked up the towel beside him and started drying.

Outside, the music changed. Hen came to the doorway and stopped with one hand on the frame. "Both of you. Leave it."

"We're nearly—"

"Ethan."

He put the towel down.

"Thank you." She waited until Jacob turned off the faucet. "Come outside."

Mara had recruited Jee to help clear a space. Karen was standing beside her, looking suspiciously at Denny, who had his phone in one hand and the speaker in the other. Nobody had told Ethan there was going to be dancing. Nobody had told Karen either, apparently. "Where's this come from?" she asked.

"You like this one," Mara said.

Hen took Karen's hand. "She's right."

"I'm aware." She went anyway. Mara caught her other hand, Jee attached herself to Mara, and the four of them found a rhythm that didn't require anyone to know steps. Denny stayed near the speaker until Hen reached out and took him by the wrist. He protested. Not enough to get away.

Karen turned Denny under her arm, making him duck. Ethan laughed. He'd thought his phone was in his pocket and found it in his hand instead, camera open. He lowered it before taking anything. He could ask later. He wanted to watch.

Jacob stood beside him while Buck came through carrying the cake box. Ethan stepped aside to let him pass, then turned back toward Hen and Karen. "They look happy," Jacob said quietly.

"Yeah."

Hen's glasses had slipped. Karen pushed them back up with the hand she'd just released, and Hen caught her wrist long enough to kiss the inside of it. Mara made a face at Denny. He made one back.

The song ended with Jee still turning.

They coaxed everyone toward the cake before she fell over. Mara lifted the lid herself and checked the decorations with an attention Ethan recognized from the courthouse picture. Yellow flowers, white icing, her name spelled right. She smiled.

"Good?" Karen asked.

"Yeah."

There were no candles to decide about. Mara chose the first piece, waited while Hen cut it, and then asked for a second plate. "For Denny."

"I can get mine," he said.

"This one." She pointed at a corner with a yellow flower. "You said you wanted that."

He took it when she offered it. Karen watched him thank her and reached for another plate.

Ethan helped pass the slices. When he came back for his own, the knife had reached a strip of icing thick enough to stand up by itself. "Small," he said. Hen looked at him. "A small piece, please."

"You're allowed to have cake."

"I know. I had a lot of lunch."

She cut the piece he'd asked for, added a little flower from the edge, and handed it over without another argument. He kissed her cheek. "Congratulations."

Her free hand closed around his upper arm. "Thank you, baby." He let himself stay there for a second before moving out of the way.

Maddie had given Nash to Chimney and was eating standing beside Karen, their heads close. Athena was showing Jee how to untie a balloon without letting it go. Christopher had reclaimed his phone from Denny and was letting Mara choose a frame from the video, apparently having surrendered the argument about the crash.

Ethan found Jacob by the table. He'd saved the empty chair beside him without putting anything on it.

"You got a flower," Jacob said.

Ethan held out the plate. "You want half?"

"No, thanks."

Ethan took a bite. The flower was sweet enough to catch in his throat, and the cake beneath it was soft, cool from the filling. He ate slowly, listening to the conversation move around the table.

Across from them, Mara had begun explaining to Karen exactly which pictures she wanted printed. Hen listened with her arm stretched along the back of Karen's chair. Denny interrupted to ask about the size, and the conversation became a practical argument about how many photographs could fit on a page.

Ethan finished the cake and put his fork down. He wanted to lean against Jacob. He sat back in his own chair, listening while Karen asked Mara to show her again.

May's first shot hit the edge of the rim and came straight back at her. She caught it against her stomach, made a sound Jacob tried not to laugh at, and looked up at the basket. "I used to be better at this."

"How long ago?"

"Don't start."

He held out his hands. She passed him the ball harder than she needed to, then followed it into the strip of shade crossing the court. The afternoon sun had warmed the concrete enough that he could feel it through the soles of his shoes. "Closer?" he suggested.

"I know where the basket is."

Jacob shot from where he stood. The ball struck the backboard and dropped through, bouncing toward the fence before he could catch it. He went after it without looking at her.

"Don't look so pleased," she called.

"I'm facing the other way."

"I can tell."

He was smiling. He turned with the ball against his hip and tossed it back. May moved closer to the basket this time, set her feet, and made the shot. She lifted both arms before the ball had cleared the net. "There."

"Do it again."

She gave him a look, but she did.

The ball had come out of Athena's garage on Thursday. May had brought home two boxes of books, a lamp she hadn't decided where to put, and this, apparently without planning to keep any of them when she'd gone over for dinner. She'd sent Jacob a photograph of the ball yesterday morning while he was helping Karen with bread. He'd said he would play. He'd forgotten that May might want to win. "Are we counting?" he asked.

"We are now."

They started with the rules she remembered and adjusted them when one turned out to require more people. Neither knew whether the line at the far end of the court was the one they were supposed to use. May chose it anyway.

May stopped to tie her hair back, holding the ball between her ankles. When she was done, she rolled it to Jacob. He lined up a shot from the side, where the rim looked narrower and the backboard less useful. He changed his angle and missed anyway.

"That's the hard one," she said.

"I noticed."

She came over and tried it herself. The ball bounced off the board and struck the fence, making the wire shake. May stayed where she was for a moment, hands still lifted, and then went after it.

When she passed it back, she pointed him toward the middle. He took the advice.

Jacob missed his next shot. She ran past him to retrieve the ball, her laugh carrying back over her shoulder. "What?" he said.

"Nothing."

It was good to be out here. He'd spent the morning on job applications, checking the hours against his course schedule before sending anything. There were still no replies. He'd needed to stop looking at his inbox.

May had asked whether he was free, then told him where to meet her. He'd brought water and a sandwich because he'd left lunch too late, and she'd arrived carrying the ball in both hands with her bag sliding off one shoulder. He was glad he'd said yes.

They played until Jacob had lost track of the score and May insisted that wasn't a shared problem. He stole the ball from her once, missed spectacularly, and had to follow it almost to the gate while she stood with her hands on her knees, laughing. "You can stop enjoying that," he said.

"I'm trying."

She wasn't. He laughed too and bounced the ball back to her.

On the next possession she ducked under his arm and got close enough to make the shot. He'd been slow to turn, distracted by the determination on her face, and she pointed at him as she backed away.

"Count that."

"I am."

"Out loud."

"I don't know what number we're on."

"That's convenient."

"Tell me, then."

She did. He decided not to argue with the margin.

They took a break when two younger kids arrived with a ball of their own. There was another basket at the far end, but one of the boys kept looking toward theirs. May caught the ball on its way back from Jacob and tucked it under her arm.

"You done?" she asked.

"For now."

They moved to the bench under the trees. Jacob pulled his shirt away from his chest, letting some air reach the damp fabric, and took a long drink. May sat down with her bag between her feet. The ball fit beneath the bench with a little pressure from her shoe. "That was yours?" he asked.

"Mine and Harry's. Mostly his, after a while."

"He know you took it?"

"I sent him a picture."

"What'd he say?"

She handed him her phone. The photograph showed the ball in the back of her car, beside the lamp and one open box. Under it was Harry's reply.

Harry: You finally found a sport you can bring indoors.

Jacob looked up. "Indoors?"

"It was one time."

"Did you break something?"

May took the phone back. "A light. We thought the ceiling was higher."

He laughed. She was smiling too, looking at the photograph again before she locked the screen. "Mom kept it all," she said. "Stuff I thought we'd thrown out years ago."

"You take any of it?"

"The books. A few other things." She tucked the phone into her bag. "I'm taking a box back. I don't have room for every notebook I ever wrote three pages in."

Jacob unwrapped his sandwich. "You want half?"

"What is it?"

"Cheese, tomato. There was spinach, but I don't know if it survived."

"I ate. Thank you."

He took a bite. The spinach had survived; the bread was doing less well. He kept the wrapper under it to catch what fell.

May watched the children at the basket. One was trying to teach the other how to line up a shot, demonstrating with enormous seriousness. The smaller boy listened, took the ball, and threw it entirely differently. "I've got a presentation Monday," she said. "Three people, ten minutes. One of them's written eight minutes for herself."

"She know it's eight?"

"I timed it."

"Did you tell her?"

"Yes." May turned her water bottle between her hands. "She said she talks fast."

Jacob swallowed his mouthful. "Does she?"

"Not that fast."

"What are you doing?"

"Meeting tomorrow. Cutting it together." She leaned back, looking up through the branches. "I don't want to be the person who rewrites everybody's work because I get nervous."

"You already rewrote it?"

"In my head." He looked at her. She looked back, then laughed once, reluctantly. "I know."

"Didn't say anything."

"You didn't need to."

Jacob folded the wrapper around the second half of his sandwich. "I made a shorter version of my part," May said. "I'll take that. See if it helps."

"You still get to say what you need?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

Her phone buzzed in her bag. She took it out, read something, and made a face.

"Her?" Jacob asked.

"No. The other one."

She held the phone low against her leg, thumb moving over the screen. Jacob ate another mouthful of sandwich. On the court, the smaller child had decided to shoot from between his knees.

"That's not going to help," May said. Jacob looked back at her. "Not you." She erased something. "He wants to change the slides."

"All of them?"

"The order." She read again, then set the phone facedown on the bench. "He can bring it tomorrow."

"You tell him that?"

"I'm about to." She picked it up again. This time she typed more slowly and put it away before a reply could arrive. Jacob watched her shoulders drop a little when she leaned back.

"You could've said to meet another day," he said.

"I wanted to come."

"I know. I'm saying if you're busy."

"I'm always busy with something." She looked out over the court. "I was going to sit inside getting annoyed. This is better."

"Even losing?"

"I'm winning."

He smiled into his sandwich.

May rested her head against the back of the bench for a moment. "I miss not having to arrange it. Seeing people. When everybody was just there."

"College?"

"Some of that. Home, too." She turned her face toward him. "Not that I want to move back."

"I didn't think you did."

"Mom made enough dinner Thursday for about six people. Then she sent me home with half of it."

"You eat it?"

"Last night." Her mouth curved. "Today."

He laughed. She sat forward again, nudging the ball with the side of her shoe.

"It was nice," she said. "Just dinner. She made me take the books out to the car before she'd let me start washing anything."

"Did you do the dishes after?"

"Some."

He could picture that: May returning from the car, Athena letting her have a towel after deciding she'd done enough. He'd been in their company often enough to know there would have been an argument, small and familiar, over who got to stand at the sink.

"Harry can get the next one," May said.

"Does he know?"

"He does now."

She tipped the bottle to her mouth, found it empty, and looked down with mild surprise. Jacob passed her the unopened one from his bag. She took it, thanking him, and rested it against her knee before breaking the seal. She stretched one leg out, flexing her ankle. "Anyway. That's tomorrow. I'm not doing it now."

"Good."

They sat without talking for a while. Jacob ate the second half. A dog on the path beyond the fence had discovered something under a bush and was refusing to be persuaded away from it. Its owner stood with the leash slack, apparently prepared to wait.

May nudged the ball with her heel. "How's home?"

"Good." The answer came too quickly. Jacob heard it and took another drink, though he didn't need one. "They start on the room tomorrow. The door, mostly. Chimney's coming later."

"That'll be nice." She stretched her leg out again, keeping the ball beneath the bench. "You still like living there?"

He looked at her. "I do. A lot." He could tell her about the books they'd moved, the supplier deciding the existing frame was sound, Ethan telling him impatiently that he lived there too. He still liked remembering that, even the impatience. "It'll be good to get everything back where it goes."

May nodded and turned her bottle between her hands. On the court, one boy tried to copy the shot from between the other's knees. The ball went almost straight up. They both scrambled after it, arguing before either had caught it. She watched them for a moment, smiling, then reached for her phone. "I don't know what I'm doing with that lamp."

"The one from your mom's?" Jacob asked. She showed him a photograph. The lamp stood beside a chair, its shade projecting well past the table beneath it. He remembered it looking smaller in the back of her car. "That's big."

"I know. It looked normal at her house." She enlarged the picture with two fingers. "Here, I keep hitting it when I get up. And I can't open this drawer properly."

Jacob leaned closer to see where she meant. His phone vibrated inside his bag before he could answer. He took it out, intending only to check who it was.

Ethan: Are you home for dinner?

He typed a question about the time, then left it unsent. He wanted to go home and eat beside Ethan. Perhaps Ethan only needed to know how much to cook. Jacob read the question again.

"Jacob?" May had lowered her phone. The lamp was still on it, blocking the drawer she'd wanted to show him. "It's not getting any smaller while you look at that."

He looked up. "Sorry." He erased the unfinished question and answered before he could begin another one.

Jacob: Yeah. Later. You don't have to wait for me.

He sent it, then wished he'd left off the last sentence. May turned her screen toward him again. "Could you move the chair?" he asked.

"I sit there." May looked from him to the photograph. "That's the bit I like. I can read without balancing everything on my knees."

"Right. Sorry." He put his phone facedown on the bench and looked properly this time. There was a patch of floor beside the chair, but he couldn't tell from the picture whether anything would fit there. "Does it have to be on that table?"

"It needs to be on something. It's not a floor lamp." She tilted the phone toward herself. "I thought it would be nice to have a light that wasn't the one on my desk. Then I got it home and spent half an hour rearranging things so I could walk past it."

Jacob smiled. "Did you turn it on?"

"Eventually. Wrong bulb. It made everything yellow." She looked at him, then began to laugh. "I know. I could've checked that before I moved the chair."

His phone vibrated against the bench. He turned it over before her laugh had quite ended.

Ethan: I know. I'll leave you some.

Jacob read it with his thumb still against the edge of the screen. There would be dinner when he got back. He could almost hear a chair scraping at the island, picture putting his bag down there, and the pleasure of it reached his face before he remembered May. She was looking at him. Her own screen had dimmed in her hand.

He locked his phone. May tilted hers back toward herself and rested it against her knee. For a moment neither of them returned to the photograph. On the court the boys shouted over one another, and a ball struck the fence hard enough to make both of them turn.

"Anyway. I might try another bulb before I give up on it." She looked down at the shade. "Mom doesn't need it back just because I haven't worked out where it goes."

Jacob put his phone back in his bag and pulled the zipper shut. "You don't have to keep it just because she doesn't need it either."

"I know." She was quiet for a moment. "It's not that I don't want things from home. I just didn't realize I'd need to decide what I wanted all over again once I got them here."

Jacob thought of his books waiting for shelves and the photograph still in his drawer. "Can you leave it somewhere you won't keep hitting it? Just until you get the bulb."

"That sounds like the floor."

"Not where you walk."

She laughed again. "Thank you. Very important distinction." She took one last look at the picture, then locked the phone. "I'll move it before I go to bed. I'm not breaking it on the first weekend."

Jacob waited while she put it away. On the court, one of the boys had stopped to tie a shoe while the other bounced the ball in place. Jacob watched them with her, leaving his phone where he'd put it.

He picked up the wrapper and folded it small enough to fit in the outside pocket of his bag. "How bad was I losing?" he asked.

"Quite bad."

"An actual number."

"You had four."

"I had more than four."

She grinned. "You said you weren't counting."

"I can remember four separate things."

"Then you should've remembered the score."

The boys left the court with one of them carrying the ball. May watched them pass through the gate, waited until they were clear, and hooked her foot behind the basketball. Jacob leaned down to retrieve it before it could roll into the path.

"One more?" she asked.

He stood, the warmth of the concrete coming back through his shoes. "Yeah."

They started again from zero. May made him say the score after every basket, and he did, even when it was hers. He was less careful about letting her past him now. She noticed and tried harder, taking a shot from farther out than she'd attempted before.

It missed. Jacob caught the rebound, passed it back instead of shooting, and she looked at him. "Again," he said.

"That wasn't the rule."

"You want it or not?"

She lined up the shot. This one went in. May shouted, a brief, surprised sound that made someone on the path look over. Jacob laughed and caught the ball before it could get away from them.

They played until the sun had moved off half the court and May's phone reminded her of something she'd set for herself. She silenced it without answering a message. "Reading," she said, when he looked.

"You need to go?"

"In a minute." She took one last shot. The ball circled the rim and fell out, and she put both hands over her face. Jacob went to get it.

At the bench, May packed the empty bottles into her bag. Jacob checked the ground before closing his own.

"Same time next week?" she asked. He looked up. "If you're free. I'm not staying that bad at it."

"I'll check."

"Okay." She tucked the ball under one arm. "Text me."

He said he would. His phone was in his bag, where it had been for most of the afternoon. There might be a message from Ethan. There might not. For once he left it there while he lifted the bag onto his shoulder.

May walked beside him to the gate, trying to remember the final score. He remembered it exactly and waited until she'd finished guessing before he told her.

By ten on Sunday morning, Ethan had lost the use of the sofa, the kettle, and one of his shoes.

The sofa was under a clean sheet. The kettle was behind a toolbox he wasn't going to move without asking. His shoe turned out to be beneath the chair, exactly where he'd left it when Jacob had asked him to stop walking through the dust in socks. He pulled it on standing, steadied himself against the island, and looked toward the room.

One of the lower covers had come off the partition. The frame behind it looked thinner exposed, though the installer had said it was sound. Luis was kneeling beside the opening with a piece of the replacement material balanced across his thighs. His assistant held the cover upright on a padded sheet, clear of the bathroom route.

Jacob stood near the foot of the stairs with his hands empty. He'd offered to help twice. They'd told him what they needed cleared, he'd cleared it, and now he appeared to be discovering there wasn't much left for him to do.

"Coffee?" Ethan asked him.

"Can you get to it?"

"I'm going to find out." He went around the end of the island rather than stepping over the case on the floor. The other side was clear. Jacob followed, carrying their two mugs from the table, and set them down beside the machine.

Jacob opened the cupboard for the coffee.

They'd decided against bringing the terrace table inside. Outside, it could hold the displaced things and still leave them somewhere to eat.

The boxes from Wednesday were on the far end of it beneath a sheet, away from the door. The lamp and the breakable things had gone upstairs. Ethan had carried the last armful himself rather than let Jacob guess which pieces could safely be stacked.

Now the room looked almost like it had before they'd finished it the first time, except Jacob's bed was still there, wrapped against the dust, and a stack of clothes occupied the chair upstairs. They weren't starting again. Ethan kept having to remind his eyes of that.

"You need anything out of there before we cover this side?" Luis asked.

Jacob looked toward the room. "My charger. Left of the bed."

"You can get it. Nothing loose over there."

Jacob went in by the open doorway. He came back with the charger and his glasses case, apparently having remembered that too. Ethan watched him put both on the island, among the ordinary things they'd cleared to let somebody else work.

Luis showed them how the replacement material would fit the lower section and which seals would suit the door. The upper glazing was staying as it was.

"It'll help," Luis said. "It won't make the rest of this disappear." He nodded toward the open mezzanine, the hard floor, the height above them.

"We know," Jacob said.

"Just so you're not disappointed later."

Ethan looked up at the black rail of his bedroom. The whole loft was still one large, imperfect space wrapped around a smaller private one. He wanted Jacob to be able to shut his door without hearing every spoon put in the sink. "Better's good," he said.

Luis nodded and went back to work.

The first sustained noise began before the coffee was done. Ethan felt it in his teeth as much as he heard it. Jacob took the mugs outside, and Ethan followed with the milk and a cloth to wipe the table.

Sunlight fell across the lower terrace. The boxes occupied the shady end; the other two places were clear except for a plant Jacob moved before Ethan could put down his mug. Through the open doors, the sheet over the sofa rose slightly in the draft and settled again.

Ethan sat with his back to the warmth. He'd brought his laptop down, thinking he could do the easy part of Monday's reading while the work happened. The sound started again. He left the laptop shut.

"That bad?" Jacob asked.

"I haven't even opened it."

"You could go somewhere."

"I want to be here."

Jacob looked down at his mug. Ethan wanted to leave the sentence alone, but he couldn't tell what Jacob had taken from it.

"They'll have questions," he added. "And Chimney's coming."

"Yeah."

Jacob pushed his glasses farther up his nose. They caught the light, hiding his eyes for a second. Ethan watched his hand lower to the table and remembered the same fingers against his neck. He took a drink before the coffee had cooled enough.

"I played basketball with May yesterday," Jacob said.

Ethan looked up. "How was it?"

"Good." Jacob turned the mug between his hands. "She won."

Ethan smiled. He hadn't known she played. He wondered what they'd talked about. "You're playing again?"

"Maybe next week."

"Good."

Luis called Jacob's name. He stood, taking his mug with him, and Ethan watched him go back down the two steps into the living room.

One of the sliding doors was off its track now, supported safely out of the way. Without it, the opening looked wrong. Ethan could see straight past the place where it ought to be into the covered room, the bare strip of floor where Jacob's desk normally stood.

Jacob listened while Luis showed him the worn guide. He bent to look, asked a question Ethan couldn't hear, then glanced toward him. "Come see."

Ethan went in. It was a small thing. A piece he could have held between two fingers, changed shape by use just enough to let the door move badly. He'd been expecting some larger failure because of the sound it made. "That's why it sticks?" he asked.

"Part of it," Luis said. "We'll get it straight and check it with the new seals before we finish."

Jacob touched the edge of the frame, then took his hand away. "Will the handle stay?"

"Unless you want a different one."

"No. I like it."

Ethan looked at the black handle against the protected door. He liked it too. He hadn't realized Jacob cared which one they kept.

They left the installer room to work. In the kitchen, Jacob rinsed their mugs while Ethan found a place for the charger that wouldn't get it caught beneath anything.

Ethan's phone rang on the island. "Hey," he said.

"I'm outside," Chimney said. "Can one of you come down? I've got more than two hands' worth."

Jacob was already reaching for his keys. Ethan thanked him with a look and stayed to answer Luis's question about the trim finish. They'd chosen it on Thursday. He showed him the sample by the window rather than trusting the color on his phone.

By the time he put it down, the front door opened again.

Chimney came in carrying a bag and one end of a flat-packed shelf. Jacob had the other end, turned sideways through the doorway. Ethan cleared the small stool out of their way.

"Pancakes?" he asked.

"Successful." Chimney set his end down where Jacob directed. "Jee says your wall needs stickers."

"Did you tell her no?"

"I told her I'd mention it."

Jacob laughed. Chimney gave him the bag. "Food. You can eat some of it now, before you decide you're too busy."

"We weren't—" Ethan started.

"Good. Then you've got time."

He went to greet the installer. Ethan opened the bag and found containers Maddie had clearly packed, fruit, bread, and a smaller tub he recognized from Karen's kitchen. There was cake in it. He took out the cake first.

Jacob looked over. "Lunch?"

"Checking."

"Okay."

They put the food on the terrace table. Chimney washed his hands at the sink and joined them a few minutes later. The work continued behind him, stopping occasionally while somebody checked a fit.

He asked about the shelf they'd bought. Jacob explained where he wanted it: inside the room, not projecting into the shared route.

"Show me after," Chimney said.

"You don't have to put it together."

"I know."

Jacob paused, then took a piece of bread.

Ethan ate while Chimney told them about Jee insisting on a pancake small enough for Nash. Maddie had made one and eaten it herself after explaining, again, why he couldn't have it yet. Ethan could picture Jee considering that unfair on more than one level.

"She'll try again," he said.

"We're aware." Chimney reached for the fruit. "How much is left today?"

Jacob looked toward the room. "Door, seals. They'll finish the trim if they've got time. There's a return piece they didn't have."

"So not everything."

"Not everything," Ethan said. They would be able to use the room tonight.

After they ate, Chimney and Jacob carried the shelf components inside. They used the clear patch beyond the kitchen rather than fill the living-room floor with another job. Ethan took the packaging as they opened it, flattening the cardboard against the island.

He found a screw beneath the flap and held it up. "Needed?"

Jacob looked over. "Very."

"Thought so."

He put it in the shallow dish they were using for the hardware and sat on a stool while Chimney checked the diagram. The assembly went slowly, mostly because Jacob stopped to make certain each panel faced the right way before committing to it. Ethan would have gone faster and had to undo something. He watched the shelf take shape without offering that as a method.

"Where's the basket going?" Ethan asked.

Jacob looked up from the shelf. "Which one?"

"Cables. The little one."

"I thought this could take it."

Ethan looked at the top shelf. It would be convenient for Jacob, less so when Ethan wanted something after he'd gone to bed. The basket held his spare cord too, and the adapter they were both always losing. "Can we leave that outside?"

"Yeah." Jacob sat back on his heels. "I forgot your stuff was in it."

"There's room by the records."

"As long as it doesn't end up on top of them."

"It won't."

Chimney held one side while Jacob tightened the last fastener. Ethan took the basket from the kitchen and tried it in the space they'd cleared beneath the stairs. It fit without covering the spines.

Jacob came to look. "Good?" Ethan asked.

"Yeah. That's better."

He bent to tuck a trailing loop inside. Ethan moved aside to let him straighten without hitting his shoulder on the stair above them. When Jacob turned, they were closer than Ethan had meant to stand. "Sorry," Ethan said, stepping back.

"You're fine."

His voice was quiet. Ethan looked up and found Jacob looking at him, not the basket. For a moment he thought of asking if Jacob wished they hadn't kissed, while Chimney was occupied at the island and the installer's tools covered whatever answer might come.

Then Luis moved behind the partition, and Ethan heard his own name. He turned too quickly. "Yeah?"

"Give us another minute before you come through here."

"Okay."

Beside him, Jacob let out a breath. He went back to help Chimney turn the shelf upright, and Ethan stayed by the stairs until they had it balanced.

Then Luis needed them at the room again. The door was back, its black edge restored to the opening. Jacob stepped forward when Luis invited him, took the handle, and moved it closed. It ran without the catch. He opened it again, slowly this time, then closed it while watching the lower guide.

"Better?" Luis asked.

"Yeah." Jacob smiled, looking up. "A lot."

Ethan wanted to try it. Jacob stepped aside before he asked, leaving his hand on the handle for half a second until Ethan's fingers settled beside it. Ethan felt the brief warmth across two knuckles, then the handle alone. He moved the door. The weight was familiar, the resistance different. At the end it met the frame softly instead of making him pull it the last fraction. "Oh," he said.

"Yeah," Jacob said, and this time they both smiled.

Luis showed them the seals, the parts to keep clear, what to do if anything started dragging. Then he stayed inside with Jacob while Ethan went to the kitchen. From there Ethan could see the black frame, the pale lower panels, the distorted shapes above them. Luis began speaking at normal volume. Ethan heard a voice and had to listen for the separate words.

Jacob said his name. Ethan looked straight toward the door, but the rest came through too softly to follow. He waited for it again. Before he could ask, the door slid open and Jacob was there, one hand on the handle. "How much could you hear?"

"Some." Ethan had been about to answer the voice as he would have from the sink any other evening. Now he crossed the room so he wouldn't have to raise his own. "I heard you. I didn't get the words."

"Try from this side," Luis said.

They changed places. Ethan stood near the space where the desk would return while Jacob went out to the kitchen. The door closed. Beyond the glass, Jacob's dark shirt moved past the island, familiar and indistinct. Ethan heard Chimney say something, then Jacob laughing. He could still recognize the laugh. The room held it farther away.

Jacob spoke again, and Ethan caught enough this time to answer. When Luis opened the door, the whole loft came back at once, the scrape of Chimney shifting the shelf, water running briefly at the sink. Ethan smiled at the difference. It had worked.

"That's good," he said when Jacob came back. "You can get some peace from me now."

Jacob stopped at the opening. "I didn't ask you to be quiet."

"I know. I meant the noise." Ethan looked past him toward the kitchen, where he'd left the two mugs. "We should still use headphones late," he added. "If I'm watching something."

"Me too." Jacob moved aside to let him out.

"Yeah." Ethan stopped beside Chimney while Luis went to get the last length of trim he could finish today. He watched Jacob measure for the shelf once more, then helped him carry it inside. It fit without catching the baseboard. They left it empty.

By midafternoon the tools had gone back into their cases. Luis pointed out the narrow unfinished return where he would fit the missing piece when it arrived, then checked the door once more before leaving.

Ethan shut the front door behind the two workers and stood still. The sudden quiet felt louder than he'd expected.

"Don't sit down," Chimney said from behind him.

"I wasn't."

"You were thinking about it."

Ethan was. They still had a sheet over the sofa, dust where the protection had ended, and furniture in places no one wanted it to stay. He went to get the vacuum.

They worked from the room outward. Jacob carried the desk back with Chimney, then checked the space around the chair before setting anything on it. Ethan wiped the dresser, gave the surface time to dry, and brought the glasses case over from the island. Jacob set it in the top drawer.

The privacy curtain had been tied back for the work. Jacob let it down and checked that its edge hadn't caught in the repaired door, then drew it back again. The reeded glass above the opaque panels caught the afternoon light without giving Ethan a clear view through it.

He waited outside while Jacob moved the desk chair in and out once, testing the space with the door closed. When it opened again, Jacob was smiling at the absence of the old scrape. Ethan smiled back. He could have stood there making him demonstrate it all afternoon.

Jacob folded the protection from the bed inward, leaving the duvet clean beneath it, and took it out to the bag by the front door. Ethan brought the vacuum back into the room.

"You want the clothes?" Ethan asked.

"In a minute. Get the shared stuff back first."

They uncovered the sofa carefully, folding the dusty sides inward. Underneath, the cognac leather looked like itself again. Ethan put the cushions back. Jacob passed him the navy one from beneath the chair. "Thanks," Ethan said as he set it at the end.

The lamp went back beside the chair. They brought the book boxes in from outside and left them closed in the place they'd chosen. Ethan moved the stool back to the island.

Chimney ran a cloth over the shelf once more, accepted a container of cake he hadn't asked for, and let Ethan walk him to the front door. "Thank you," Ethan said.

"You're welcome." Chimney glanced past him at the room. "Looks good."

"There's still the little bit."

"I saw." He squeezed Ethan's shoulder. "Don't take it apart before it arrives."

"I wasn't going to."

"Good."

He left. Ethan shut the door and turned back toward the loft.

Jacob stood at the island sorting the last of the loose hardware into its bag. He'd changed his shirt, his hair damp at the temples where he'd washed his face. Behind him the door to his room was half open, the desk bare, the new shelf waiting. Ethan picked up the two empty mugs. "Tea?"

Jacob looked toward the kettle, accessible at last. "Yeah. Please."

While the water heated, Ethan washed the mugs. Jacob dried the counter, leaning around him to reach a streak near the sink. His arm brushed Ethan's back. Neither moved very far. There was enough space for the drying rack and both mugs without balancing anything on a toolbox. Ethan found the tea and left the cupboard open while he tried to decide how to begin.

"You staying in tonight?" he asked.

Jacob set the cloth down. "Yeah. Are you?"

"I live here." Ethan heard himself a second late. It should have been funny. Jacob was still waiting for an answer, and Ethan shut the cupboard. "Sorry. Yes. I'm staying in."

"Okay." Jacob picked the cloth up again, folded it, then unfolded it to reach the last damp edge of the counter.

The kettle clicked off. Ethan poured both mugs and put the tea away.

"Outside?" he said, lifting his mug.

Jacob took the other one. "Yeah." He held the terrace door while Ethan went up the two steps, and they sat at the end of the table they'd cleared. Inside, the half-open bedroom door stayed where Jacob had left it. Ethan could hear the small sound of his cup meeting the table when he set it down.

The box marked Kitchen contained a pair of winter boots and most of the screws from a desk Eddie no longer owned. He stood over it with the tape caught on his thumb, wondering which of his sisters had done that.

"Not me," Christopher said from the sofa.

"I didn't ask."

"You were going to."

Eddie looked at him. Christopher was watching a video on his phone, one earbud in, the other hanging against his shirt. He hadn't looked up. "You remember the desk?" Eddie asked.

"The one that wobbled?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe those were important."

Eddie lifted the little bag of screws. There were nine of them, two different lengths, and a bracket that might have belonged to something else entirely. He put them aside rather than try to solve it now.

The delivery crew had gone ten minutes ago. Their truck's departure had left an unobstructed view of the street and a living room full of cardboard, wrapping, and the final pieces from El Paso. His couches were back in place. The armchair was where he wanted it. The sideboard stood a few inches from the wall so he could get behind it, and the last row of boxes occupied the space he'd cleared yesterday. His own bed was still wrapped in the garage until Buck could move his out of the bedroom.

Christopher put his phone down. "Did you check the broken one?"

"Crushed. Not broken."

"The crushed one."

Eddie found it at the bottom of the second stack. He'd photographed the damage and opened the carton before the crew left. Only the carton had been damaged. "Your grandmother used half the paper in Texas."

"Good."

Eddie took out a thick bundle, unwrapped it on the table, and revealed a blue serving bowl. There was a smaller one nested inside it.

Christopher leaned forward. "I forgot that."

"You packed it."

"I know."

Eddie ran his thumb along the rim, checking for a chip. There wasn't one. He set both bowls on the counter, away from the edge, and went back for the next bundle.

They'd been living here for months. Christopher's room had its bed, its desk, the furniture that had never made the trip to El Paso at all. There was food in the kitchen, homework on the table, a loose cupboard catch Buck had been meaning to tighten again. Still, Eddie had checked the delivery window three times this morning. He was tired of owning things he couldn't reach. "Can you pass me that bag?" he asked.

Christopher pulled out his earbud, wound both around the phone, and set it beside him. "Which?"

"Big one. For the wrapping."

Christopher found the bag under a loose sheet of paper and shook it open. Eddie pushed the used wrapping into it, trying not to leave any on the floor.

"Keep some," Christopher said.

"How much?"

"A few big pieces."

"For what?"

"Backgrounds. If we paint it."

Eddie pulled the cleanest sheets back out and put them on the table. "You and Denny?"

"Yeah. Maybe. We're still deciding."

"How's the plane?"

"Fine." Christopher folded one sheet along its existing crease. "It's not going to be a whole movie about a plane."

"Okay."

"We'd run out of things to do."

Eddie smiled and cut the next strip of tape. Christopher had shown him the finished bit first, then the version with Jacob's hand entering the frame and the lamp shifting halfway through. That second version had made him laugh harder. He could ask about the movie over lunch, once they'd cleared the wrapping.

His mother called while he was getting the last of the wrapping off a cupboard door. Eddie answered on speaker and set the phone on the table. "Hey, Mom."

"Did everything come?"

"Everything came."

"And the box?"

"The bowls are fine." He looked at Christopher, who was listening now. "You packed them well."

"I told you."

He smiled. He remembered her telling him, and himself replying that the truck still had a long way to go. It had taken storage, a delivery date, a changed delivery date, then this morning's phone call before he could stop wondering what was happening to their things.

"They're on the counter," he said. "Not a scratch."

"What about the furniture?"

"That's good too."

Christopher leaned toward the phone. "The chair fits."

"Hello, sweetheart. Did you get your books?"

"We're doing those next."

"There's an envelope in with them. Don't bend it."

"I won't."

"And the pictures are for both of you. Your grandpa printed extra."

"Okay."

Eddie pulled the phone closer so she could hear without Christopher having to lean. He asked about Ramón, and she told him he was outside trying to finish something before the heat got worse. Eddie could hear a door opening at her end, then her calling his father's name.

"Mom, he doesn't have to come in."

"He wants to know."

A moment later Ramón's voice arrived farther from the microphone. Eddie repeated the good news, answered a question about a drawer, and promised to send pictures once they'd unwrapped everything.

"No hurry," his father said. "We just wanted to know it got there."

"It did."

Christopher told them about the party. Helena asked whose, listened to the answer, then asked whether he'd found the present. He pointed toward the hall while answering, as though she could see where he meant.

They weren't finished talking when Eddie's elbow nearly knocked an empty box off the table. He caught it against his knee, and Christopher laughed.

"What happened?" Helena asked.

"Dad."

"Nothing," Eddie said. "I've got it."

He put the box down, waited while his parents and his son said goodbye, then took the phone off speaker. His mother reminded him about the envelope once more before letting him go. When he put the phone away, Christopher was still smiling.

"You going to open yours?" Eddie asked.

"Yeah."

A carton near the sideboard had Christopher's name written on two sides. Eddie turned it so he could read the smaller list beneath. "This yours?"

Christopher looked. "Some of it."

"It says your name."

"Grandma added stuff."

Of course she had. Eddie carried the box to the clear end of the table and opened it. Books, a little zippered bag, a flat envelope supported between two pieces of cardboard. Beneath those was the packet of photographs Helena had mentioned.

Christopher reached for the zippered bag.

"What's that?"

"Mine."

"I got that far."

His son smiled down at the zip without opening it. Eddie left it alone and took out the books.

They weren't all schoolbooks. A paperback with a creased cover had a scrap of paper sticking out halfway through. Christopher picked it up and frowned. "I thought I finished this."

"Maybe you did."

"I don't remember the end."

"Read it again."

"I've got other stuff."

Eddie put it on top of the stack anyway. Christopher moved it to the side nearest him.

The envelope held a drawing and a few loose pages. Eddie slid them back between the pieces of cardboard, then picked up the photographs. "You want to look?"

Christopher nodded.

Eddie pulled a chair out so he could sit at the table, then took the photographs from the packet. The first was from the lake. Ramón had printed it too dark; half the people beneath the shade looked like silhouettes. Christopher turned it toward the window. "That one's bad."

"Tell your grandpa."

"He'll print it again."

"Probably."

The next one caught Adriana reaching across a picnic table while Sophia looked straight into the camera. Buck stood at the edge, holding something just outside the frame. Eddie remembered the moment without remembering what anybody had said.

Christopher laughed.

"What?"

"Buck had the plates. Aunt Adriana wanted him to move because he was blocking the cooler."

"Right."

"Then he went the wrong way."

Eddie looked at the photograph again. Now he could remember that too.

There were older pictures mixed in. Christopher at his grandparents' table, a school photograph, one of Helena's attempts to capture something on a television screen. Eddie sorted that one out and showed it to him.

"Any idea?"

Christopher squinted. "That was my project."

"On the TV?"

"We cast it from the laptop. She didn't know how to save it."

Eddie kept the photograph instead of putting it in the discard pile. He could ask his mother what she wanted a copy of and get Christopher to send the actual file.

At the bottom was another lake picture, everyone pressed together, too much sky above them. Eddie's shoulder was turned toward his father. Christopher had his head tipped slightly back, laughing at something beyond the camera.

"That one," his son said.

"For your room?"

"Yeah."

Eddie passed it over. Christopher held it by the edges and looked a little longer before setting it with the books.

Christopher's phone vibrated on the sofa.

"Get it," Eddie said.

"It can wait."

"Okay."

They finished the packet. Eddie looked at the little separate piles his son had made. "I was thinking we could get lunch after this," he said.

Christopher's hand stopped on the book. "Oh."

"You hungry?"

"Yeah. But I was going to Lewis's."

Eddie leaned back. "Today?"

"His party."

He knew about the party. There had been a message, a time discussed over dinner, Christopher showing him the address while Eddie was trying to answer something from the moving company. He could see the phone on the table in his memory and not the hour on the screen.

"Right."

Christopher watched him. "I told you."

"You did."

"I thought we were just getting the boxes."

"We are." Eddie looked at the room. "I got carried away."

"There's still stuff."

"There'll be stuff tomorrow."

His son's shoulders loosened. Eddie felt the small disappointment in his own chest and the relief beneath it. "Okay," he said. "What time am I dropping you off?"

"Four. But I said I'd help him set up."

"So before four."

"Three-thirty?"

Eddie checked the time. "We can do that."

Christopher reached for his crutches and stood, leaving the books in their stack. Eddie moved the chair out of his route before carrying the empty packet back to the box. "You're not taking these?"

"I'll get them. I need to find the bag."

"For Lewis?"

"Yeah."

"Where'd you put it?"

Christopher stopped in the hall. "If I knew that, I wouldn't need to find it."

"Fair."

Eddie put the photographs away while Christopher searched his room for the gift. In the next carton he found three mugs, a saucepan lid, and the sideboard's missing shelf pins. He kept the pins together in a dish.

Christopher came back with an unwrapped present and a gift bag folded flat. "Is there tape?"

Eddie held it up.

"Not that."

"It'll stick."

His son gave him a look and went to the kitchen drawer. Eddie watched him find the small roll exactly where it had been before the truck arrived, bring it to the table, and work the bag open. "You need help?" Eddie asked.

"Can you hold this bit?"

Eddie held it. Christopher tucked the tissue around the present, changed his mind about one corner, and taped a small card to the front. Eddie kept his hand where it was until he was told to let go. The card was already written. Eddie didn't read it.

"You got the address?" he asked.

Christopher found it on his phone and sent it again. "Same place."

"I know."

"The front path's clear. His mom said."

"Okay."

"I'm taking my crutches."

"All right." Eddie saved the address. "What time does it finish?"

"Seven. Unless we go get something after."

"Text before the plan changes."

"I will."

"Not after you're somewhere else."

Christopher looked up. "I will."

Eddie left it there. He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was enough for a sandwich, not enough to justify spending twenty minutes deciding what counted as lunch. He made two, cut Christopher's in half, and carried the plate back.

"I thought we were getting food there."

"You are. This isn't dinner."

"Okay."

Christopher took a half and sat on the sofa while he ate. Eddie stayed at the table, checking the delivery sheet against what they'd opened. He found the saucepan in the next carton, which settled one minor mystery, and set it with the lid.

Eddie's phone lit up with Buck's name.

Buck: Everything arrive?

Eddie took a photograph of the sideboard and the stacked wrapping.

Eddie: All here. No damage inside the crushed box. Enough paper to move it back again.

Buck's reply came quickly.

Buck: Don't throw all of it out.

Eddie looked at the pile Christopher had saved.

Eddie: Already got instructions.

He put the phone down before the exchange could turn into Buck apologizing for not being here. Buck was working. He would see the furniture when he came back.

"He asking?" Christopher said.

"Yeah."

"Send him the chair."

"He knows what it looks like."

"It fits now."

Eddie looked at the chair. Buck had helped measure the space before the delivery. He sent the picture.

Christopher finished eating and carried his plate to the kitchen. On his way back, he stopped beside the sideboard. "Are the handles in there?"

"Top drawer."

"Why'd you take them off?"

"To protect them."

"They stick out anyway."

"The movers wanted them off."

Christopher opened the drawer, checked the little bag, and shut it again. "Okay."

Eddie looked at him and recognized his own expression.

Christopher took one of the flattened cartons from the pile by the door and laid it on the table. He ran his hand along the seam, testing how far it would open. "Can I keep this one too?"

"For the movie?"

"It's big enough to cut."

Eddie looked at the picture of a carton he'd sent Buck, then at the careful way his son folded this one flat. "Take what you need. Put it somewhere I won't throw it out."

"Behind my desk."

"Not where it covers the outlet."

"There's room."

"Bring it?" Christopher asked, reaching for his crutches.

Eddie carried it after him and slid it behind the desk, clear of the outlet. He went back to the sideboard while Christopher moved things around in his room. When Christopher came back, he had his phone in one hand and an answer to a question Eddie hadn't asked.

"It fits."

"Good."

They had twenty minutes before they needed to leave. Eddie got the screwdriver and put the first handle back while Christopher found a clean shirt. By the second, his son had returned and was watching from the sofa.

"Straight?" Eddie asked.

"Other side's higher."

Eddie adjusted it. "Now?"

"Yeah."

Eddie tightened the last screw, closed the door, and wiped his palm over the top. A pale mark near the back had been there in El Paso. He could remember making it, putting down something hot without thinking, and being irritated with himself for a whole evening. It was still there. The sideboard worked anyway.

Eddie set the screwdriver on the sideboard. He found his wallet beneath the delivery sheet and put it in his pocket, then tucked the sheet into the drawer with the other house papers. There were three handles still to reattach.

"Ready?"

"Almost."

His son was writing something on his phone. Eddie picked up the gift bag and held it while Christopher finished. "Denny?"

"Lewis."

"Right."

Christopher put the phone away and reached for his crutches. Eddie held the front door, then waited while his son came through the clear space between the sofa and the armchair.

Halfway across the room, Christopher stopped. "What?" Eddie asked.

"Nothing." He looked at the sideboard, the chair, the stack of books that had arrived this afternoon. "Looks good."

Eddie smiled. "Yeah."

Then Christopher was moving again, asking whether they could stop for ice on the way because Lewis had just remembered. Eddie checked the time, picked up his keys, and told him they could.

Jacob put the drawer back in, closed it, and opened it again. The dresser hadn't moved. Nothing about the drawer had changed. He'd only taken out the things he'd pushed into it while they were clearing the room, but he kept expecting to find something behind it that would need dealing with before he could use it normally. There wasn't. He put his glasses case in the shallow tray at the front and shut it.

Beyond the partition, somebody's cart rattled along the building corridor. The sound reached him through the front door and the loft, softened twice before it got here. He could still hear it.

The last return piece had arrived that morning. Luis had fitted it, checked the door, taken away the remaining protection. Jacob had signed what he needed to sign and watched him leave with a bag that occupied much less space than Sunday's tools. Now the room was finished enough that he couldn't use the work as an excuse to keep everything waiting.

He looked at the shelf. It was bare except for the cloth he'd used to wipe it. He'd measured carefully, assembled it carefully, carried it in with someone at the other end. All that preparation had produced three empty spaces and the unexpected difficulty of choosing what belonged in them. He picked up the cloth and went to get his books.

The boxes near the terrace had both their lids on. He opened the lighter one first, found Ethan's label on top of the pile, and checked the contents rather than trusting his memory. Those were the books they'd agreed could go back beside the chair. He carried them in two trips, leaving the order as they'd packed it.

The other box held things from his room, a few notebooks, the loose cable they'd found behind the desk. He took it inside. His quilt was folded back at one corner. He smoothed it, spread a towel over it, and set the box down, then laughed at himself. Cardboard wasn't going to ruin the bed. He'd slept in it last night.

The textbooks went on the lowest shelf. He had no reason to put the heaviest ones where he'd have to lift them over his head to find something underneath. Two fit upright; the larger one lay flat. The spines looked more used in the afternoon light than they had at the bottom of the box.

He ran a thumb over the worn corner of the biochemistry text and remembered writing a page number on the back of his hand because he couldn't find anything else to use. He'd washed his hands before looking it up and lost the number. He could remember the annoyance more readily than whatever the page had been about. He didn't need the book for class now. He put it where he could reach it anyway.

The notebooks were harder. Some had plenty of space left, some barely a page, and one held a list of jobs he'd applied for. He opened that one and read down the names and dates.

Apart from the automatic acknowledgments, he hadn't heard anything back. There wasn't anything else for him to send today.

He put the notebook on the shelf, shut his laptop instead of checking his inbox, and reached for the novel Ravi had brought to the party. Ravi had brought it over after finishing it. May had said Jacob could read it next.

A narrow strip of paper marked the place where he'd stopped. He'd been moving it forward a few pages at a time, mostly when Ethan was reading too, then losing the thread because the sofa had become a difficult place to pay attention.

There were only thirty pages left. Jacob sat on the edge of the bed, opened the book, and read the last paragraph he remembered. He had to read it again. The room wasn't silent. A car passed below; somewhere in the loft a small settling noise traveled through the frame. His attention moved toward the door and back. Then the story caught him, and for a while he forgot to listen for anything else.

When he reached the end, he sat with a finger still between the final pages. He didn't like it. Not enough to wish he hadn't read the book. Enough that he opened it again, went back several chapters, and found the place that had made him expect something different. There was Ravi's pencil mark in the margin, faint enough that Jacob had almost missed it the first time.

He took his phone out.

Jacob: Finished it. Call me when you're free. I have a problem with your book.

He put it down before he could compose a longer argument. The light coming through the upper glass had shifted. He'd been reading for nearly an hour.

He hadn't sat here like that very often. Bed had mostly meant sleep, or changing clothes, or a place to spread things while he looked for something else. He could close the door and read in the afternoon. That wasn't a complicated discovery. It felt good anyway. Before getting up, he lay back against the pillows. His feet stayed on the floor at first. Then he took his shoes off and brought them up, the quilt cool against his calves.

From here, the new shelf made the room look different. He'd expected to notice the finished edge of the wall, the cleaner line beneath the upper glass. Instead he kept looking at the books. Beyond them, the desk stood far enough from the partition for its cord and chair, with no temporary box waiting to catch his shin in the dark.

He closed his eyes. He could have stayed there. That was what he'd been trying to make possible, through measuring and clearing and explaining what he could spend. A room where he could shut the door for no larger reason than wanting to lie down. His hand rested on his stomach, rising with his breathing. He stayed until the tightness between his shoulders eased.

Then he sat up, found one shoe half beneath the bed, and put both beside the dresser. He wanted the chair free when he came back later. He left the book on the bed and took the current notebook off the shelf, setting it beside the laptop. The others could stay where they were. He fed the charging cord through the gap behind the desk and plugged it in.

The desk lamp was still aimed at the wall, its shade tucked away from anybody carrying things through. He brought it around, switched it on, and laid the notebook beneath it. The page lit evenly. He moved the base out of his elbow's way, then left the notebook open when he switched the lamp off. Nobody needed the space for dinner.

There were things he wanted on the wall. Not enough to fill it. A photograph, maybe, something he could look at from the desk without finding a list of what he needed to do next. He had pictures on his phone and one small frame he'd kept meaning to use. He took it out of the drawer. The photograph inside was an old one from the water in Charleston, more sky than shore, a sliver of somebody's hand at one edge. He'd taken it because the light had changed while they were packing up. He'd kept it because he liked looking at it.

There were other things he could remember about Charleston. He didn't have to put those in the frame. He set it on the middle shelf and stepped back. Too far left. He moved it right, then moved it back half an inch, mildly irritated that he was capable of making a decision about molecules and not where to put a photograph.

His phone rang. "You finished?" Ravi asked, his voice filtered through the speaker after Jacob answered.

"Yeah."

"You said you had a problem."

"The ending."

"Okay. Which part?"

Jacob picked up the book and found the page again. He tried to explain without reading three paragraphs aloud. Ravi interrupted halfway through because he thought Jacob meant the choice at the station.

"No. Before that."

"Then you need to go farther back."

"I did."

"How far?"

He told him.

Ravi went quiet for a moment. Jacob could hear a little movement at the other end, then pages turning.

"You've got another copy?"

"Library. I wanted to check something after you asked about it."

Jacob sat back on the bed, grinning. "So it wasn't just me."

"I didn't say that."

They argued about it for ten minutes, then about something neither of them had mentioned in the original complaint. Jacob found a pencil and made one light mark beside the passage Ravi meant, stopping to ask before he wrote in the book.

"Go ahead. I've already done it."

"I noticed."

"You can give it back when we get coffee."

"When's that?"

"I was about to ask."

They compared the week. Jacob checked the time Ravi suggested against his calendar, then said yes. He wanted to do something with the days before October turned into a roomful of new people and things he didn't know how to do yet.

"How's the work going at your place?" Ravi asked.

"Done. Mostly. No, done now." Jacob looked toward the door. "They finished this morning."

"Worth it?"

"Yeah. Door doesn't stick."

"That's a good start."

"I can hear less from the kitchen too."

"You'll sleep better."

"Probably." He would, when what kept him awake was a cupboard closing or a spoon dropped in the sink. That hadn't been the problem last night.

Ravi had to go. Jacob promised to bring the book, ended the call, and looked around the room. The frame had slipped a little to one side. He left it.

He'd done enough to know how the room worked. There were still clothes on the chair outside, an empty box on the bed, and a bag of little things he'd taken off the desk without knowing what to do with them. He tipped the bag out onto the towel. Pens, a receipt, two coins, an old bottle cap. The bottle cap went into the trash. The coins went in the tray. He tested every pen, threw out the one that left an almost invisible line, and put the rest in the mug on his desk. The receipt was for the storage boxes. One still had to go back. He photographed it before putting it with his keys.

By the time the front door opened, he'd carried the empty box out, put his clothes away, and moved the towel into the laundry. He was sitting at the desk, looking at a blank page in the notebook.

"Jacob?"

"In here." Ethan's footsteps approached, then stopped beyond the opening. The door stood a few inches from the frame. Jacob got up and slid it back.

Ethan had his backpack on one shoulder and a paper bag in his hand. His hair was flattened on one side, pushed up on the other. "They finished?"

"This morning."

"Can I see?"

Jacob stepped aside. "Yeah."

Ethan came in without dropping his bag on the bed. He looked at the finished edge first, then the shelf, then the desk. Jacob watched him taking it in and felt unreasonably exposed by the neatly arranged pens. He wanted Ethan to like it.

"That fits well," Ethan said, nodding at the shelf.

Jacob looked at the space around it. "Yeah."

Ethan moved closer to the photograph. "Where's that?"

"Charleston." Jacob looked at the strip of sky above the water. "I took it."

"I like the light," Ethan said. "It looks warm."

"It was. We'd gone down after work. A couple of friends, whoever finished at the same time." He remembered sand caught against the inside of his ankle, the little circle of people widening as they passed the ball. "Some of them were swimming. I didn't want to get back in. We'd been in the water half the day."

Ethan studied the photograph. "You took this when you were leaving?"

"Yeah. We played volleyball first. Supposed to, anyway. Kept losing the ball in the water." Jacob smiled at the memory, then looked back at the frame. "We all got dressed and stood there for ages because nobody wanted to go." He could remember who had finally sat down, the shape of the bag beside her, the argument about whether there was anywhere still open to get food. "We ended up eating in the car."

"That sounds good," Ethan said.

"It was," Jacob said. Ethan looked at the photograph again, and Jacob was glad he'd left it where he could see it. The evening hadn't become less real because other things had happened afterward. For a few minutes he'd been able to tell Ethan about being young and tired on a beach without telling him about leaving Charleston at all.

Ethan nodded, still looking. After a moment he stepped back, his backpack catching lightly against the doorframe. "Sorry."

"It's fine."

"I should put this down." He lifted the paper bag. "I got food. Didn't know if you'd eaten."

"Not recently."

"Good. I bought too much."

Jacob followed him out. The kitchen looked ordinary again. Not a toolbox in sight. Ethan put the bag on the island, dropped his backpack beside his stool, and started taking out containers. Jacob got plates before he could remember that his own door was still open. He left it open.

"How was class?" Jacob asked, passing him a plate.

"Long. Somebody asked a question right at the end, and then another person asked the same question differently." Ethan stopped with his hand on one of the containers. "The professor answered both."

"Oh."

Ethan opened the containers. They divided the food without much discussion, swapping the containers when Jacob pointed out that he'd given himself nearly all the sauce. Ethan scraped some back, tasted it from the end of his fork, and closed his eyes for a second.

They ate at the island. Ethan's knee knocked the stool leg once, then again, until Jacob looked down and discovered Ethan was tapping a rhythm with his heel.

"What's in your head?"

"What?"

Jacob nodded toward his foot.

"Oh." Ethan stopped. "Sorry."

"I didn't say stop."

Ethan named the song. He'd heard it on somebody else's headphones that morning. "It was a good song."

Jacob nodded and went back to his food. After another mouthful, he set his fork down. "I finished Ravi's book."

"Good?"

"Parts of it. I'm seeing Ravi this week. I said I'd bring it."

"Can I read it first?"

"Ask him."

"Okay." Ethan went back to eating. Jacob was glad he'd had something to tell him that hadn't started with making room for a worker.

Afterward, Ethan took the empty containers while Jacob rinsed their plates. Jacob dried his hands, looked toward his room, and found Ethan following the glance. His backpack was already off the floor.

"You going back in?" Ethan asked.

"For a bit. I haven't actually written anything yet." Jacob put the towel down. "You could bring your reading."

Ethan looked past him at the opening. "In there?"

"Yeah." He'd meant it as an invitation, not something that needed explaining. "If you want."

"You just got it back." Ethan shifted the strap higher on his shoulder. "I'll let you get sorted first."

Jacob had been sorted when Ethan came home. He looked at the bare patch of island between them, the place where the containers had been, and couldn't think how to say that without making Ethan's answer into something he'd have to change. "It isn't much."

"I know. Later, then?"

"Yeah." Jacob picked up the towel again. There was nothing left to dry. "Later."

Ethan nodded, but neither of them moved immediately. Jacob folded the towel along the damp crease and put it over the sink. When he looked up, Ethan's hand had tightened around the backpack strap.

"I'll put the kettle on," Ethan said.

Jacob went into his room. He left the door half open and pulled the chair out far enough that Ethan could get past it if he came in. On the desk, the notebook waited where he'd put it. He wrote the date, then the first item on the list, and heard the kettle click off.

Ethan stopped in the opening with two mugs. Jacob turned the chair toward him. For a moment he thought Ethan was going to come through; then Ethan held one out, keeping the other close to his chest.

"Thanks." Jacob took it. "You can sit down."

"I'm okay." Ethan glanced at the open notebook. "I'll be out here."

He went to the sofa before Jacob could work out whether to ask again. Jacob set the mug beside the lamp, leaving enough space that he wouldn't knock it with his elbow. From the chair, he could see Ethan's foot at the end of the sofa, the open book resting against his knee. They were close enough to speak without raising their voices. Jacob turned back to the list. He read the first item twice before remembering what the second had been.

Buck had the key in his hand when his phone rang. He looked at the number, then at the agent standing on the path in front of him.

"Take it," she said.

He did. The confirmation came in an ordinary voice, from a person who had probably made several calls like this already today. Recording was confirmed. The purchase had closed. The agent could release possession under the terms they'd agreed. Buck listened until the caller finished, asked her to repeat one part because a car had passed, and thanked her twice. Then he lowered the phone.

"All done?" the agent asked.

"Yeah." He looked down at the key again. "All done."

She smiled. He'd seen that smile when she was explaining things, when he'd asked to return at a different hour, when he'd sent a question with two more attached because he couldn't work out which answer mattered first. This time he didn't have another question.

She gave him the rest of the keys, the small folder of information left for him, and a reminder about the document she'd emailed. He put the keys together carefully, listening to the little metal clicks.

"Congratulations, Buck."

"Thank you."

She waited while he opened the front door. He knew how the lock worked; he'd watched her use it often enough. His key resisted anyway. He turned it back, tried again without pulling on the door, and felt the bolt move. That was all it took. He stepped inside. The living room was empty. It had been empty at the final walkthrough too, which they'd completed before he came back here to wait for the call. Nothing had changed in the interval except who was allowed to stay.

The agent said goodbye from the doorway. Buck thanked her again, then closed the door when she was gone.

He stood with his bag on his shoulder. The house smelled faintly of cleaner, warm wood, the air that had been shut inside while the afternoon heated the outside walls. He could hear a vehicle passing, then the quieter interval after it. His own breath sounded loud enough that he stopped noticing it only when he moved.

He put the bag down. He picked it up again because it was in the way of the door. There was a place beside the wall where it could stay. He set it there, took off his shoes, then put them back on because there was still work happening today and he didn't know where the floor had last been swept.

"Okay," he said to the empty room. No one answered. That was the point, partly. He wasn't sure he liked how quickly he'd noticed.

He went into the kitchen. The long stretch of counter was clear. During the walkthrough he'd kept the paperwork at one end, away from the sink, while they checked the last agreed items. Now he set his keys where the folder had been and looked at them.

His.

The word came so readily he almost laughed.

He'd signed enough to make his hand ache. He'd checked the figures, the costs that didn't stop at the down payment, the money he wasn't going to spend on furniture because the house would eventually need things that weren't furniture. The lender's approval had come before today. The review, the insurance, the funds, the final documents had all been separate things with separate people wanting answers. He hadn't done them by himself. He had done them.

His phone buzzed.

Eddie: Any word?

Buck photographed the keys on the counter.

Buck: Closed. I'm in.

Three dots appeared, vanished, appeared again.

Eddie: Congratulations. We'll see you in a bit.

Buck smiled down at the screen. He sent the same picture to Maddie, then stared at it long enough to realize it could have been keys to anything. There wasn't much of the kitchen in it.

He took a second picture, this time with the window.

Maddie: YOUR HOUSE!!!

He laughed. Then she called. "I know," he said before she could speak.

"You own a house."

"I do."

"How does it feel?"

He looked at the empty space for the refrigerator. "Really weird."

She laughed softly. "Good weird?"

"Yeah. Mostly."

"What's the other part?"

"I don't know where to put anything."

"You've spent weeks measuring."

"Big things. I mean my bag."

"Where is it?"

"By the door."

"Sounds fine."

He looked back toward it and felt himself smiling again. There was a small sound at her end, then her voice changing direction. He waited while she answered Jee, explaining that they were talking about Uncle Buck's new house, not going there right this second.

"She wants to know if there's a pool," Maddie said when she returned.

"There's not."

"I know. I told her."

"There's a tree."

He heard Maddie relay that. Jee's reply was too far away for him to make out.

"Apparently that's acceptable."

"Glad she approves."

He leaned against the counter and listened to the familiar sounds behind his sister. He'd thought about calling her from the curb, before the confirmation, so he wouldn't have to wait alone. He was glad he'd let himself get through the front door first. "I'm not moving everything today," he said. "Just getting the stuff sorted that needs people here."

"The refrigerator?"

"This afternoon. They confirmed the window after I called. And the locks."

"Then eat something before they arrive."

"I will."

"Have you got food?"

He looked at his bag. "Technically."

"Buck."

"I brought lunch. I just haven't eaten it yet."

"Go do that. I'm proud of you."

His throat tightened before he could prepare for it. He looked at the keys, at the light reaching across the counter, at nothing in particular. "Thanks."

They arranged when she could come see it, then said goodbye before Jee could negotiate her way into the trip.

Buck got his lunch. He ate standing up for three bites, then went into the living room and sat on the floor with his back against the wall. The sandwich wrapper rested on his knee. There was room for a sofa here, a chair there, the table he'd measured twice because the photograph made the wall look longer than it was.

He wasn't buying anything else this week. He took another bite and wondered if that included a bath mat. It probably shouldn't include a bath mat. His phone held a list of things he'd already brought, and he made himself look at it before opening a shopping page. Towels, cleaning things, toilet paper. A lamp. He had a lamp. He could survive an evening without choosing every light in the house.

Before getting up, he took a photograph from where he sat. Most of it was floor, a strip of window, the empty place where he'd put the sofa. It was a terrible picture of a house.

He wanted to send it to Bobby.

The thought arrived without warning and without any confusion about why he couldn't. Buck sat with the phone held loosely in one hand, his lunch finished on his knee. He could picture Bobby enlarging the photograph, trying to see the room past Buck's thumb, asking whether the enormous amount of floor meant he'd forgotten to buy a chair. He breathed in, let it out, and looked at the picture again. Then he saved it.

Maddie would see the house. Hen would come over, Chimney would look at whatever Buck had already checked, Athena would tell him what she thought of the kitchen. There were people coming tomorrow to help carry his life through the door. He folded the wrapper and stood.

The locksmith called from outside. Buck collected his keys and let him in.

They checked the agreed doors. Buck asked to see the difference between the old hardware and what was replacing it, listened to the explanation, and stopped himself from leaning over the man's shoulder while he worked. Instead he opened the folder.

The electrical correction had been completed and documented before occupancy. Buck put the electrician's paperwork with the window assessment and roof follow-up he'd reviewed before committing to the final terms. Then the folder went into the drawer he'd chosen for it. He could find what he needed without carrying the whole file through every room.

The locksmith called him over to try the new lock.

He did, from both sides, before the man packed up. The new keys were brighter than the first ones. Buck separated them carefully, checking which would stay on his ring and which he needed to keep somewhere safe.

When the front door closed again, he went through the rooms. He looked at the place for the dresser, the cupboard that still needed organizing once he had anything to put in it, the smaller bedroom with light falling across one corner. He stood there longer than he needed to. He could put a bed in it. Not today. He could work out the room after he'd lived here long enough to know what he wanted it to do.

He opened the closet, shut it, and went back to the kitchen.

There was a small ceramic dish in his bag, wrapped in a towel. He'd bought it during an ordinary errand and kept it in the bag for nearly a week, unwilling to put it out anywhere before he had the place to put it. He set it near the entrance. Then he moved it farther from the edge. It looked like a dish. He put his keys in it. That was better.

The next knock came sooner than he expected. Eddie stood outside with a bag in one hand and Christopher beside him, looking past Buck toward the living room.

"Hey," Eddie said.

"Hey. Come in."

He stepped back, holding the door while Christopher came through. Christopher's bag hung from one shoulder, and Buck reached for it only when Christopher held it out.

"School?" Buck asked.

"Unfortunately."

"That bad?"

"No." Christopher looked toward the kitchen. "Is it done?"

"The house?"

"The buying it."

"Yeah."

Christopher smiled. "Good."

Eddie set his bag on the counter. "You ate?"

"Maddie already did this."

"Did you answer her?"

"Yes. I had a sandwich."

"Okay." Eddie had brought the kettle, the one Buck had packed and left beside the dining room rather than put in his car. There were mugs in the bag too, wrapped inside a towel. "Figured you'd want these before tomorrow," Eddie said.

Buck took one out. "I did."

"I know. You put a note on it."

Christopher laughed from the living-room doorway. Buck pointed at him with the mug.

"You've done the same thing."

"Not with a kettle."

"Different priorities."

Eddie unwrapped the other mug and set it beside the sink. Buck watched him check the counter before choosing the spot, then stop himself from moving it again.

"There's fine," Buck said.

"Okay."

He wanted to give them a tour, though they'd both been here before. Christopher wanted to see the yard, and Buck realized he was equally willing to begin there. They went out together.

The orange tree looked no different. One branch crossed the fence, leaves moving where the breeze reached them. Buck had the maintenance contact saved in his phone. He wasn't pruning anything this afternoon.

Christopher stopped in the shade. "You going to pick these?"

"When they're ready."

"How do you know?"

"I'm finding out."

Eddie looked up through the branches. "Not by eating the green ones."

"I wasn't going to," Christopher said.

Buck smiled and stepped onto the patch of cool ground he'd found during the inspection. His feet knew where it was now. That pleased him more than the tree's prospects, though he did want the oranges.

A plane came over. They stopped talking while it passed. Buck watched Eddie turn his head, judging the sound without pretending not to. Christopher waited, then looked toward the house when they could hear one another again.

"You get used to that?"

"I'll find out," Buck said.

"You've been here a lot."

"Not asleep."

Eddie's mouth moved. "You'll manage."

"I think so." He did. He'd made the decision with the noise included, not because he'd forgotten to hear it.

A woman came down the path beyond the fence carrying a watering can. She looked toward them, lifted a hand, and stopped.

"You moving in?"

Buck stepped closer without crowding the fence. "Tomorrow. Most of it."

"Welcome."

"Thanks. I'm Buck."

She gave him her name. He repeated it so he'd remember, then asked whether the branch crossed too far onto her side.

"It's all right for now," she said. "We can talk when you're settled."

"Okay."

She went on with the watering can. Buck stayed where he was for a moment, looking at the place her hand had rested on the gate. He was going to live here, and the woman next door knew his name.

"Buck?" Eddie called.

He turned. "Coming."

Back inside, Christopher sat on the floor near his bag and took out his phone. Eddie helped Buck move the loose things clear of the appliance route. The delivery call came while they were finishing, and Buck answered it without giving the driver more directions than he'd asked for.

Then there was something large coming through the front door, people who knew how to move it telling everyone else where not to stand. Buck stayed back. He'd measured the opening; he didn't need to make it smaller by occupying it.

He watched the refrigerator settle into the space. It fit. He hadn't realized how much he'd been waiting to see that. There were checks to make with the delivery crew, packaging to take away, instructions he put straight in the drawer rather than leave on top. When they were gone, he opened the door once, looked at the empty shelves, and shut it.

"Very nice," Eddie said.

"It's a fridge."

"You've been looking at it for a while."

Buck laughed. "I paid for it."

"I know."

Eddie leaned beside him while he put the delivery paperwork away.

"Still tomorrow for the rest?"

"Yeah. Not before. I wanted to know today was actually today."

"Okay."

"I'll pack the last of the bedding in the morning. There's a bag under the table too."

"I saw it."

Buck looked over. "It's not in the way."

"I didn't say it was."

"Right." He shut the drawer, opened it again to move the folded instructions off a receipt, then made himself close it properly. "You'll get the table back."

Eddie's mouth curved. "That's the plan."

"You still putting it where it was?"

"Probably. I'll see when there isn't a bed in the way."

Buck laughed, then looked toward the living room. Christopher had stretched his legs out, his bag against the wall, his attention fixed on the screen in his hand. He already looked comfortable.

"It wasn't really mine," he said.

Eddie followed his glance. "What?"

"The old place. Before yours. I was subletting." Buck rubbed his thumb along the counter edge. "I could move the furniture. I could change things, some things. But it wasn't—"

"Yours."

"Yeah."

Eddie looked around the kitchen. "This is."

"I know." The words came out a little breathless. Buck smiled, not trying to hide it this time. "I keep remembering."

"Probably going to happen for a while."

"Probably."

From outside, a gate shut. Buck turned toward the sound, listened, then looked back. He was going to learn which sounds belonged here. Not all of them today. "You want coffee?" he asked.

"You've got coffee?"

"Instant. In the bag. I came prepared."

Eddie glanced at the kettle he'd just carried in. Buck saw him remember the note, and laughed before he could say anything.

"Mostly prepared."

"Coffee'd be good."

Buck filled the kettle. He knew the faucet, the time it took the water to warm. He could reach for the mugs now without crossing the room or checking which bag he'd put them in.

Christopher looked up from the floor. "Can I put my water in?"

Buck checked the instructions before answering. Eddie watched him do it without comment.

There was still space everywhere. The house would look different tomorrow, full of the things Buck was bringing out of the dining room and the things he'd kept packed elsewhere. He was glad of that. He was also glad he'd seen it like this first.

He went to the entrance and took the spare key from the dish. "For you," he told Eddie.

Eddie looked at it, then at him.

"If I lock myself out. Or something needs doing when I'm at work." Buck heard himself adding reasons and stopped. "If that's okay."

"Yeah." Eddie took it. "Of course."

He put it on his ring while Buck watched, fitting it between keys Buck already recognized.

Christopher was back on his phone. A message arrived on Buck's too, Ethan checking that tomorrow's help was still needed.

Buck: Definitely. Closed today. You're moving things into an actual house I own.

Ethan: Congratulations!! We'll be there after class.

Buck put the phone away and looked at the kettle, the mugs, the bag by the door. He hadn't put his lunch wrapper in the trash yet. Eddie was leaning against the counter. Christopher asked whether the house had Wi-Fi. "Not yet," Buck said.

"Okay."

He went back to whatever worked without it. Buck picked up the wrapper, found the trash bag he'd brought, and opened it beneath the sink. There. One more thing where he could find it.

Buck had labeled the box Light things. Ethan got both hands beneath it, lifted, and looked at his uncle. "Compared to what?"

"The books."

"There are books in this."

"Only some."

Jacob laughed behind him. Ethan shifted the box against his chest and carried it through the front door before Buck could explain the system further. There was a clear patch beside the living-room wall, marked by the absence of anything else, and he put it there.

"Not on top of that one," Buck called.

"It's on the floor."

"Okay. Good."

Ethan stood and looked around. He'd seen photographs. They hadn't shown him the way the light moved through the front room, the warmer strip at the end of the hall, how much of the kitchen you could see without standing in it. A sofa occupied the place Buck had apparently been thinking about for weeks. The large deliveries were done; there were blankets folded near the wall and cardboard waiting to be flattened. He liked it.

Jacob came in carrying a lamp in one hand and a bag in the other. Ethan took the lamp before its shade could catch the doorframe, then stepped aside while Jacob lowered the bag. "Where?" Ethan asked.

Jacob looked toward Buck. "He said by the sofa."

"He tell you where to put the bag?"

"Kitchen, I think."

Ethan smiled and carried the lamp over. The cord was wound around the base. He unwound it before putting it down, checked for an outlet, and plugged it in.

They'd come straight from campus, where Jacob had picked him up after class. Ethan had changed his shirt in the car while it was still parked.

Buck appeared in the doorway with the next box. "Kitchen," he said.

"It's written on it," Ethan pointed out.

"I know."

He was smiling so widely that Ethan stopped making fun of him and went to help.

Before he went back out, Ethan checked the lamp cord. It crossed the route from the sofa toward the hall, loose enough to catch a foot. He unplugged it and tried the other outlet, bringing the cord along the wall instead.

Jacob watched from the doorway with the next bag against his thigh.

"Better?" Ethan asked.

"Yeah."

He waited while Ethan put the lamp back. When he came past, Ethan reached for the lighter bag in his other hand. Jacob passed it over without checking whether he meant it, and they walked the next two loads in together.

The remaining things fit into a manageable plan once Buck stopped trying to carry and direct at the same time. Ethan took the smaller boxes. Jacob and Buck handled the awkward ones together, asking before turning through the hall. Anything not needed tonight went against the wall, leaving the route from the front door clear.

Ravi arrived while Ethan was undoing the first kitchen carton. "I brought food," he announced.

Buck looked up immediately. "We were going to order."

"This is for before that."

He held up a bag of snacks, set it on the counter, and asked where he was needed. Jacob pointed him toward the last few things outside. They went together, and Ethan watched them exchange some comment he couldn't hear before turning back to the box.

He found mugs, a bowl, a dish towel wrapped around something that turned out to be another mug. A small handwritten note lay beneath them.

Open first.

He put it aside. They'd already opened three other boxes, but Buck didn't need that pointed out.

The cupboards were empty enough to make choosing one feel important. Ethan took out a stack of plates, held them for a moment, then set them on the counter instead of putting them where he would have put his own. "Buck?"

His uncle came in with a roll of tape hooked over one wrist.

"What?"

"Where do you want these?"

Buck looked from the plates to the cupboards. He opened one, shut it, opened the next.

Ethan waited.

"Here."

"Okay."

"Unless—"

"Here's good."

Buck watched him put them away. Then he took the mugs and found a place for them without asking.

By the time Ravi and Jacob came back, there was enough counter visible to put down the snacks. Ravi opened the bag, took something for himself, and passed it along. Ethan ate standing beside the sink, leaning away from the carton so he wouldn't drop crumbs into it.

"You've been here before?" he asked Ravi.

"No."

Buck looked at him. "You want to see?"

Ravi did. They disappeared down the hall. Jacob took a plate from the counter and handed it to Ethan, who put it in the cupboard. When they didn't know where something went, they left it out.

Ethan found a chipped mixing bowl and turned it to inspect the edge.

"Keep?" Jacob asked.

"Ask him."

He put it beside the sink with the other uncertain things. Jacob folded the wrapping paper into a flatter pile. His hands were broad against the pale sheets, fingertips dusty, a faint red mark near one thumb where a box handle had pressed.

Ethan remembered the question before the kiss. He could hear it as clearly as he could see Jacob's hands. He set the next bundle on the counter and peeled the paper away from an empty plastic tub.

Jacob took it as Ethan freed the last edge of paper. "Got it."

"Thanks." Ethan looked up. Jacob was still close, holding the tub between them. Ethan turned back to the box before Jacob set it on the counter.

Ravi came back first. He put a folded carton against the wall and nodded toward Jacob.

"You bring it?"

Jacob looked at him. "The book?"

"Yeah."

"No. Sorry. I was thinking about this."

"That's fine."

"I'll bring it when we meet."

Ethan looked between them. "Can I borrow it after?"

Ravi turned toward him. "Yeah. You know what it is?"

"He told me."

"Did he tell you the end?"

"No."

"Good. Don't let him."

Jacob laughed, folding another sheet of paper. Ethan asked Ravi what he'd liked about it and got an answer that began with one thing, stopped, then started again because he'd thought of a better example.

Ethan listened. He'd only meant to ask for the book, but the way Ravi talked made him want to read it sooner. There were things he missed about having a conversation that didn't need to be useful before he could make time for it. "Next week?" he asked.

"Whenever. Jacob can pass it on."

"Okay."

Jacob set down the wrapping and went to help Buck find the hardware. Ravi stayed to finish the kitchen box with Ethan, asking where the mugs belonged instead of deciding for him. Ethan showed him, and they finished unwrapping the mugs.

Buck returned with Jacob, carrying a small bag of hardware he'd apparently been looking for since morning. There was a narrow table to finish putting together, not heavy, but awkward enough that two people could hold it steady while somebody dealt with the fasteners.

"We can do it," Jacob said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Ethan followed him into the living room.

They spread the remaining blanket on the floor and laid the tabletop down carefully. Jacob checked the parts while Ethan found the instructions. The paper had folded itself around one crease so tightly that he had to flatten it with both palms to see the first drawing.

"Which end?" Jacob asked.

"This, I think."

Jacob waited while he checked.

"Yeah. This."

They worked slowly at first, making certain the fittings lined up before tightening anything. Ethan knelt on one side, Jacob on the other, passing a little bag between them whenever one needed another piece.

In the kitchen, Buck and Ravi were trying to decide whether they had found the whole coffee-making apparatus or only parts of it. Ethan heard a cupboard close, then Ravi asking a question about a lid.

"Hold this?" Jacob asked.

Ethan held the leg against the bracket while he secured it. The position pulled his shirt up at the back, and he shifted his knee to keep the wood from moving.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Keep going."

Jacob finished, checked the joint with his hand, and told him he could let go. Ethan sat back on his heels and stretched the fingers he'd been pressing against the edge.

"Other side?"

"Other side."

There was something good about being able to do this somewhere else. At home, every object belonged to a routine he could overthink. Here, Jacob needed the little tool Ethan was holding. Ethan needed him to keep a part straight. They could work toward a thing that would stand up when they were done.

They turned it together, lifting on a count and setting it down gently. It didn't rock.

Ethan stood first. Jacob pushed himself up from the floor, one hand against the edge after checking it would hold steady. A bit of white packing foam clung to his hair above his ear. "Hang on," Ethan said.

Jacob stopped. Ethan reached up without thinking. The foam had caught in the auburn hair, close enough to the skin that he couldn't simply brush it away. He caught it between his fingers and eased it free. Jacob's eyes stayed on his face. Ethan's fingers touched his temple once, lightly, on the way down.

The backs of Jacob's fingers grazed his wrist. Ethan stopped with the piece of foam still held between them. The kitchen cupboard shut behind him; Ravi said something, and Buck laughed. Here, beside the table, Jacob was close enough that Ethan could see him swallow.

"There," Ethan said. It came out softer than he meant.

Jacob's hand dropped. "Thanks."

Ethan lowered his own hand. For a second there was nothing left to do with it. He looked down at the foam, then past Jacob at the little heap of fasteners on the blanket. "All done, then."

"Yeah." Jacob bent and took hold of one corner of the blanket. "Can you—"

Ethan stepped back toward the sofa.

"Just your foot," Jacob said. He was still holding the corner. Ethan looked down. He'd been standing on the edge of it.

"Right." He looked back at the clear edge of the blanket. He'd already gone much farther than Jacob needed. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Jacob lowered the corner and straightened. He looked at Ethan, then at the little white piece still between his fingers. "You got it."

"Yeah." Ethan put the foam in the trash bag. Behind him, the corner of the blanket settled back onto the floor.

Jacob crouched to collect the spare fasteners. Ethan found the last one near the table leg. Jacob held out his hand for it, palm up, and Ethan reached toward him before setting it directly in the little bag instead.

"Here."

"Thanks." Jacob closed the bag, folded the blanket, and set both beside the wall. Ethan folded the instructions along the old crease and left them on the table.

Buck came through carrying two mugs. "That was quick."

Ethan looked at the table. "It's done."

"Looks good." Buck put a mug in his hand, then gave the other to Jacob. "Thanks. Both of you."

"You want it against the wall?" Jacob asked.

"Yeah. There."

He showed them. They put down the mugs and moved it together, checking the clearance from the door. Buck looked at it for a moment before setting the little dish of keys on top.

Ethan saw his face change. Not much. Just a breath, the beginnings of a smile he didn't seem to know he was making. Ethan left the dish where it was and went back for his coffee.

Ravi had to leave before dinner. He helped flatten the last of the empty cartons, reminded Jacob about coffee, and listened to Buck's thanks long enough to become embarrassed by them.

"You can help me with something," he said.

"Whatever you need."

"I'll remember that."

He waved from the door. Ethan waved back and returned to his coffee.

After Ravi left, they made the house usable rather than finished. Buck checked the bedroom. Jacob put the cleaning things together where they could all find them. Ethan opened the box with the towels and asked which ones Buck wanted tonight before taking anything down the hall.

Buck called him before he reached the bathroom. "Can you grab that end?"

The clean sheet had caught beneath the corner of the mattress. Ethan set the towels down, lifted where Buck showed him, and helped free it before they tried again.

"Wrong size?" he asked.

"No. Just twisted."

It was. They found the right corner, pulled the sheet across, and tucked it in. Ethan smoothed the edge nearest him while Buck took a pillow out of its bag.

"That's everything for tonight?"

"Pretty much." Buck looked around the room. "I'll find out what I forgot."

"You can text."

"I know."

Ethan picked up the empty packaging. He could see the place where a dresser would stand, a phone charger already plugged in near the bed, the small amount of clothing Buck had put where he could get it in the morning. There wasn't much else.

"Looks different with the bed," he said.

"Yeah."

"Good different."

Buck smiled at him. "I think so."

Ethan moved the pillow into place. It was an ordinary thing to do for somebody, a corner of fabric pulled straight, a hand over a crease. He'd been on the other side of it often enough that doing it here made him suddenly, uncomfortably happy.

"What?" Buck asked.

"Nothing."

His uncle waited.

"I like it here," Ethan said.

Buck's smile widened. "Good." He reached out and squeezed the back of Ethan's neck, a familiar brief touch, then let go. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course."

"I know you've got things."

"I wanted to."

Buck looked down at the bed, pressed the pillow once with his palm, and nodded. Ethan took the trash to the bag by the door, then went back for the towels.

He hung one in the bathroom, put the others where Buck had pointed, and washed the dust off his hands. His reflection looked tired, hair curling at the edges from sweat. There was a small gray smear near his jaw. He cleaned it, dried his face, and stood for a moment with his hands on the sink. He hadn't imagined Jacob's hand against his wrist.

In the kitchen, Buck was ordering food. Ethan gave him his choice, then stood beside Jacob while they worked out whether they needed anything else from outside.

Ethan took the uncertain things off the counter one by one while Buck waited for the order confirmation.

"This?" He held up the mixing bowl.

"Keep. Not for food. I was going to use it outside."

"Where outside?"

Buck looked toward the yard, considered, and pointed to a clear stretch of counter for now. Ethan put it there. The other pieces found places more quickly: a lid paired with its container, a small wooden spoon in the drawer, the extra mug near the kettle.

Jacob took the emptied carton and checked beneath its flaps before folding it. Nothing hidden this time. "That's the last kitchen one," he said.

Ethan looked around. There was still work everywhere, but they could make a drink and put the mug away afterward. Buck could find a plate without opening anything with a knife.

"Good," Buck said, and put down his phone.

Ethan pressed the empty wrapping into the bag, tied it loosely so they could add more, and washed his hands again. When he came back, Jacob had moved a stool out for him with his foot.

"We're good," Jacob said.

"You sure?"

"Pretty sure."

Buck checked the list in his phone anyway. Ethan watched him do it with a tenderness he hadn't expected to feel while his feet hurt. "You're sleeping here tonight?" Ethan asked.

Buck looked up. "That's the plan."

"Good."

"Yeah." His uncle smiled. "It is."

They ate with the front room lit by the lamp Ethan had unpacked. Buck sat on the sofa. Jacob took the floor beside the low table, and Ethan sat near enough to reach the food without having to get up every time.

The house sounded different with them in it. Less echo from the walls, more ordinary movement. A container opening, a laugh, Buck losing his napkin and discovering he was sitting on it.

He asked Ethan about the week, then Jacob about the room. Jacob told him it was finished, the door running properly, the shelf full enough to look as though someone lived there.

"You'll have to come see," Ethan said.

Jacob looked at him.

"When you're done with all this," Ethan added, nodding toward the boxes.

"I will," Buck said. "Definitely."

Ethan picked up another piece of pizza. Beside him, Jacob stretched one leg out, careful of the table. His knee brushed Ethan's, then rested a little apart. Ethan stayed where he was. There was still food, still light outside the window, still an hour before he needed to think about the work waiting in his bag. Buck was telling them about the neighbor, searching for her name and then finding it with obvious relief.

Jacob laughed, his shoulder turning toward Ethan with the movement. Ethan looked at him, smiled, and passed him the napkins.

The last thing in the kitchen drawer was a rubber band. Athena lifted it out, tested it between two fingers, and watched it break.

"Trash?" Harry asked.

"Trash," Athena said. Harry held out the bag. She dropped both pieces inside and shut the drawer. The sound was sharper without the things that had filled it. "That's all of them," she said.

Harry looked at the row of handles. "You checked the one by the sink?"

"Twice."

"Okay."

He tied the bag and carried it out. Athena stayed beside the counter, one hand on the drawer, until she heard the trash can lid close outside.

The sale was complete. She'd had the confirmation that morning, read the message, spoken to the person she needed to speak to. The agreed handover was this afternoon. She was leaving.

Her bag stood by the front door. Her car held the last things she was taking herself, arranged around the space she'd left for the photograph. The movers had gone. The large pieces she'd kept were where they needed to be. Anything remaining with the property was on the list she and the realtor had checked. Athena picked up her copy and read it one last time.

May came in from the living room. "That's done."

"The cupboard?"

"Empty."

"Good."

May put a small ring on the counter. Not jewelry. The little metal ring from a key tag, bent out of shape. "Found that underneath."

Athena looked at it, tried to remember whether it belonged to anything, and stopped trying. "Put it in the bag."

"Harry's taken it."

"Then give it to me." She put it in her pocket. May watched her do it and smiled faintly. "What?" Athena asked.

"Nothing."

Athena folded the list. "I'm not keeping it."

"I didn't say you were."

She wasn't. She also knew there was a reasonable chance she would find it in the pocket next week and wonder why she'd carried it away. That could be next week's problem.

Harry returned with his keys in his hand. He'd taken the lamp May had decided against, after first insisting he didn't need another lamp. It was in his car now, along with two boxes he'd actually asked for.

"Anything else?" he asked.

Athena looked toward the living room. "Not for you to carry."

He followed her glance. "Okay."

The photograph remained where she'd left it. The space around it made it look smaller. Without the familiar objects on either side, Athena could see the whole outline of the frame, the narrow shadow it cast against the wall. She didn't go to it yet. "You two eaten?"

"Yes," May said.

Harry looked at her.

"I ate," she amended.

"I had something."

"When?" Athena asked.

"On the way."

She looked at the time. He'd been here long enough that the answer didn't tell her much. There wasn't a kitchen full of food behind her to settle it. That was one of the small things she'd thought about and still hadn't quite expected to feel.

May took out her phone. "We can get something after."

"I've got time," Harry said.

Athena nodded. She had time too. She'd left herself enough that she didn't need to rush through the front door with her children waiting impatiently beside the car. "How did the presentation go?" Athena asked May.

Her daughter looked up. "Monday?"

"You had another one?"

"No." May smiled. "It went okay."

"Just okay?"

"We finished on time. Everybody remembered what they were saying. I'm waiting for the rest."

"That's good."

"Yeah." She leaned against the counter, then straightened again, as though remembering it wasn't a place to settle. "I kept thinking we'd cut too much. Then somebody else's went on forever."

Harry glanced at her. "Did they get stopped?"

"Eventually."

"How eventually?"

May told him. He winced, and Athena found herself smiling at both of them. There had been mornings lately when people spoke to her as if ordinary information might be an intrusion. A complaint about work, a foolish thing seen on a phone, somebody needing advice about a bill. She hadn't asked them to stop bringing those things. She didn't intend to start today.

May asked Harry about the lamp.

"What about it?" he said.

"Where are you putting it?"

"I'll find somewhere."

"There's a shade with it."

"It's in the car."

"Okay."

He looked at Athena. "You sure you don't need it?"

"I'm sure."

"Because I can bring it back."

"Harry."

He smiled. "Okay."

She touched his arm as she passed him and went to collect the list from the other end of the counter. He had asked twice because he wanted it and didn't want wanting it to cost her something. "Take it home," she said. "Use it."

"I will."

May showed him something on her phone. Athena let their conversation move on while she put the folded list in her bag. The bag was heavier than it looked, full of documents she'd taken out of other places because she wanted to know exactly where they were.

She removed the small packet of loose keys and separated the ones she was handing over. The tags were still where she'd put them yesterday. May and Harry would add theirs when the realtor arrived. Athena put the unrelated keys back in her bag.

For now, the three of them stood in a kitchen cleared down to May's phone and the house keys Athena had set aside.

"Looks bigger," Harry said.

"It's empty," Athena said.

"I know."

He turned slowly, looking at the space where the stools had been. May did the same without moving her feet. Athena could see both of them checking the room against what they expected, finding the difference a little to one side of where they'd looked first.

There had been another house here. There had been rebuilding, decisions made with plans spread out and people explaining what could and couldn't be done. The present rooms hadn't contained every year of her children's lives. Sometimes she still reached for the memory of a sound from before, a door that no longer existed in quite the same place. She knew the difference. It didn't make leaving as simple as choosing which walls held which memories.

"I'm glad you took the lamp," May told Harry.

"You wanted me to."

"I didn't want it thrown away."

"It wasn't going to be thrown away," Athena said. They both looked at her. She raised an eyebrow. "We had a list."

Harry smiled. May put her phone away.

They'd chosen what they wanted, changed their minds where they needed to, helped with the things Athena had asked for. She was glad to have them here with the decisions made and nothing left to pack.

Her phone vibrated inside her bag. The realtor was outside. Athena went to the door and let her in. The woman carried a slim folder, not the bags of samples and photographs she'd brought before. She greeted May and Harry, then asked whether Athena was ready to go through the remaining handover items.

"Yes."

They checked the information left for the buyers and the items staying with the house against the written agreement. Athena put her copy back in her bag.

May took a key off her own ring and laid it beside the others. Harry did the same, working the little split ring around with his thumbnail.

"It's stuck," he said.

"Give it here."

"I've got it."

Athena waited. He got it free, set it down, and checked the rest of his keys before putting them away.

May watched hers on the counter for a moment.

"That's all of ours," Athena told the realtor.

The woman counted against her list. The old arrangement had included keys in three different bags, access her children didn't need to ask for. Athena had liked knowing they could let themselves in. She would make another arrangement when there was one to make.

May rubbed the place the key had occupied on her ring, then caught Athena looking and let her hand fall. Athena touched her wrist. "You have everything from the car?" she asked instead.

"Yeah. Mine's clear."

"Good."

Harry checked his pocket once more, found the little tag that had come off with the key, and handed it over too.

The realtor asked one question about a remote. Harry knew where it was; he'd moved it while checking the cupboard. He fetched it, set it down, and waited while the woman marked her list.

Athena watched the pen move. For weeks, every completed line had seemed to produce another page. Today there was an end to this one.

"And the last personal item?" the realtor asked.

Athena looked toward the photograph. "Coming with me."

"Of course."

The woman closed the folder and stepped back, leaving Athena room.

May moved toward the front door with Harry and paused. "We'll be right there," May said.

"I know."

Harry touched her shoulder as he passed, brief and firm. Athena covered his hand for a second before letting him go.

The realtor waited near the entrance. Athena went through the rooms. In the kitchen she checked the faucet, though she knew it was off. Then she left it alone and walked past the bare stretch of counter where she'd set the blue folder. Nothing remained there to take.

The rooms carried her footsteps back differently. That was the part she disliked. Not the emptiness itself, which had been growing by the box, but the way the sound had changed once the soft things were gone. She could hear her heel strike, then the small answering sound from the walls. She slowed instead of walking more quietly.

In the bedroom, the marks left by the furniture showed where the light had reached and where it hadn't. A slight difference along the floor, a cleaner rectangle, a few impressions that would fade when other things stood there. She'd chosen what to take. There had been no single morning when the choices became easy, no point at which every object announced whether it belonged in storage or her car or somebody else's life. Some decisions had been obvious. She'd changed others after making them.

Athena checked the closet once, because a closed door could conceal an entire shelf from a tired person. Empty. No bag tucked out of sight, no loose scarf behind the closet rod. She shut it without trying to make the sound gentler.

For weeks she'd kept enough things out to make mornings work. A towel. Her shoes. The clothes she needed for work, not the ones she imagined she might want if somebody called unexpectedly. Yesterday she'd packed those last useful things, keeping them separate from the boxes so she could find them tonight. She knew which bag held the clean towel. That mattered more than feeling ready.

She stood at the room's edge and let herself be sad. Her breathing changed, settled, caught once more. When she moved, she didn't feel finished. She only knew there wasn't anything else in here she wanted to carry. At a doorway she stopped with her hand against the frame. She looked anyway, gave herself the time, and turned when she was finished.

She wasn't going to find Bobby by staying longer. The thought hurt. It was also something she'd known before the first photograph went online. She hadn't sold the house by forgetting him.

Outside, the pool lay still, sunlight moving faintly across the surface. Athena stood by the glass and looked at the place the party had occupied: people close together, a chair where it hadn't belonged, laughter reaching farther than the neighbors would have preferred. They'd done what she'd asked. They'd made a night of it. She could remember being tired afterward, hungry, irritated by one thing left somewhere foolish. Those were memories too. She didn't want only the ones that became easy to tell once somebody was gone.

Her phone vibrated again. She took it out, prepared to tell whoever it was that she would answer later.

Karen: No need to reply. Thinking of you today.

Athena read it twice. She didn't reply. She put the phone away and went back to the living room. The photograph waited. For a moment Athena left it where it was and looked at Bobby's face. She'd cleaned the glass. There was still a faint reflection of the window across one corner, but when she shifted her head, it disappeared.

"All right," she said. Her own voice sounded ordinary. She was glad of that. She picked up the frame with both hands.

The weight was familiar. She'd lifted it to clean beneath it, turned it to check the stand, moved it a fraction when the light caught it badly. She ran her thumb along the edge. Karen had given her this. A photograph in a frame, something Athena could set down wherever she lived next. She could take it with her.

Behind it, the surface was clean except for the faint outline dust had left around the base. Athena saw it, considered finding a cloth, and decided she had finished cleaning this house. She turned away.

The realtor straightened when she approached. Athena put the last house key on the small ring the woman held out. "That's everything," she said.

"Thank you."

"You'll call if there's a question about the records."

"I will. You have my number if you need anything."

Athena nodded. There was nothing else she needed to ask. The woman stepped aside and opened the door.

May and Harry stood by the car, speaking quietly. Harry had put the towel Athena wanted on the seat. May held the door before Athena had to ask.

She carried the photograph across the threshold.

The air was warmer. Someone was cutting something farther along the street, the machine stopping and starting. Her children were waiting. She reached the car. May took her bag, leaving Athena both hands for the frame. Athena wrapped it herself, cushioning the edges, secured it for the drive, and made sure the glass faced a surface that wouldn't knock against it.

"There?" May asked.

"That's good."

Athena checked it once, then stepped back.

Harry looked toward the house. "You want a picture?"

She considered it. She hadn't thought to decide. "No," she said. "I have pictures."

"Okay."

He put his phone away.

May stood close enough that their shoulders touched. Athena could feel the effort her daughter was making not to ask a question that would require an answer neither of them had.

"You all right, baby?" she asked.

May looked at her, gave a small breath of laughter, and shook her head once. "Mostly."

"That'll do." Athena put an arm around her. May came in without hesitation, her hand closing at Athena's back. They stayed there until Harry shifted closer, and Athena reached for him too. Neither child was small enough to fit neatly. They managed.

When they let go, May wiped beneath one eye and looked annoyed with herself. Athena gave her a tissue from the bag.

"Thanks."

"Mm-hm."

Harry took the car door from her. "Food?"

"Food," Athena agreed.

They chose somewhere close, a place they all knew, rather than spend the next ten minutes asking what everybody wanted. Harry went to his car. May offered to ride with Athena and collect hers afterward.

"You don't need to," Athena said.

"I want to."

She looked at her daughter. May met her eyes without softening the answer.

"Then get in."

May smiled and went around the car.

Athena stood beside the driver's door for a moment, her keys in her own hand now. Not the house keys. The ones that would take her where she'd arranged to go. The realtor was closing the front door. She checked the lock, looked toward Athena, and lifted a hand. Athena returned the gesture. She didn't wait for the woman to drive away first.

Inside the car, May moved a bottle out of the cup holder and made room for Athena's bag. The photograph was secure. Harry waited ahead with his turn signal on.

Athena put on her seat belt.

"You know the way?" May asked.

"To lunch?"

"I meant after."

"Yes."

"Okay."

Athena started the engine. There would be a box to open later, something useful she couldn't immediately find, a place to choose for the frame. She could do one thing, then the next.

For now, she checked the mirror, waited for the car coming down the street, and pulled away from the curb.

With the door shut, Jacob could no longer hear which cupboard Ethan opened. He heard a sound, knew roughly where it came from, and went back to the form on his laptop. The difference was worth what they'd done. He could read the same line once instead of finding his attention halfway across the loft before he'd finished it.

The form wanted an employment date. He checked the document beside it, entered the month, and moved on.

It was an application he could finish without inventing availability he didn't have. October had barely started, but the course dates were fixed. If the job needed him during class, he wasn't going to get farther by pretending the schedules would somehow stop overlapping once they liked him.

The box for relevant experience gave him less space than he wanted. He'd written too much on the first attempt, then cut it until the description sounded as though he'd spent an entire degree watching other people work.

Jacob went back to the draft he'd saved separately. He could describe what he'd actually done. The lab work belonged there. So did knowing when a result needed checking instead of smoothing it into something that looked better. He didn't need to make it sound like a job he hadn't held. He rewrote three sentences, read them aloud, and took out the word he would never use when speaking to someone across a desk. That was better.

The next question concerned availability. He put the dates in clearly, then checked the uploaded résumé rather than assume the version on the form was the one he'd just corrected. It was an older copy. He replaced it.

For a moment he considered stopping and coming back tomorrow. He was tired of telling strangers the same few facts, rearranging them slightly each time so they could see why he might be useful in their particular room. He was also close to finished.

He got up, opened the door, and went to the shared bathroom. On the way back he filled his water bottle in the kitchen. Ethan stood beyond the island with his phone to his ear, listening to someone Jacob couldn't hear. Jacob lifted the bottle. Ethan smiled, nodded, and went back to the call.

Inside his room, Jacob drank, put the bottle where it wouldn't spill onto the laptop, saved the page, and read it back. The date he'd entered was right, but a digit was missing from the telephone number. "Good," he said to himself, and fixed it. Then he submitted it.

The automated confirmation arrived before he'd closed the tab. Jacob put it in the folder with the other applications. He moved the paper he'd been checking into the drawer instead of leaving it over the keyboard. Tomorrow he could find it again. The laptop shut with a small click, and he unplugged the charger, winding only enough of the cord to keep it off the floor. He leaned back in his chair.

The photograph on the shelf caught a little of the desk lamp. Beyond it, the upper glass held an indistinct wash of light from the loft. Ethan was out there, somewhere between the kitchen and the living room, doing whatever the evening required. Jacob could also stay here. That had been part of the point: not needing to choose between a shared room and going to bed, not having the whole apartment know what he was listening to or whether he was still awake. He took his headphones from the desk and put them on. The first song was too loud. He lowered it, settled back, and let the end of the working day catch up with him.

He'd met Ravi for coffee that afternoon. They'd argued about the book again, less efficiently without it in front of them, because Jacob had left it for Ethan instead of remembering to put it in his bag. Ravi had laughed and told him to let Ethan finish. The next conversation had taken them somewhere else entirely. It had been good to get out without an errand at the other end. He wanted more days like that.

Ravi had been putting off washing his car. He'd cleaned the windshield at a gas station and wanted that counted as a start, then admitted there were still empty coffee cups under the passenger seat. Jacob had asked how many. Ravi had looked into his own cup instead of answering, and they'd both started laughing. They'd stayed after the cups were empty, moving aside when somebody needed the table beside them. When Jacob had come home, he'd found Ethan's shoes by the chair, heard him upstairs, and felt pleased before either of them said hello. He could have a day outside this place and still be glad to come back.

His phone lit up beside the laptop. Christopher had sent a photograph of two pieces of painted cardboard, one blue, the other an alarming orange. Beneath it was a question about whether they could make the smaller one stand upright without showing anything behind it.

Jacob enlarged the picture. He could see the fold along the bottom edge, a little ridge catching the light. He sent back a suggestion, then added that Chris should test it with the camera where he wanted it before cutting anything else. The reply was a photograph taken from lower down. That looked better. He said so and put the phone aside, smiling.

There was another message waiting when he looked at the phone again, this one from Maddie.

Maddie: We're home Saturday afternoon if you'd like to come over. Both of you. Jee has something planned. Clothes you don't mind getting chalk on are probably a good idea.

He smiled before he finished reading. He'd been in that house often enough to know where Maddie kept the glasses, which drawer Chimney meant when he said the other one, how Jee could begin asking a question from another room and arrive halfway through it. He still liked being asked directly. He checked his calendar. Nothing Saturday afternoon. He could go without fitting it between something he'd promised and something he'd forgotten.

Jacob: I'd like that. I'll check with Ethan about the time. How much chalk are we talking?

He'd put the phone down when her reply arrived.

Maddie: I've only seen the box.

Jacob laughed. He sent that they'd come prepared, then left the conversation where it was. He could show up and let Jee tell him what she'd made.

On the chair, the shirt he'd planned to wear tomorrow had a pale mark on one sleeve. He rubbed it with a damp corner of the cloth on his desk and found it was only dust. He hung it back up, making room beside it for something older he could wear on Saturday. He was looking forward to that too.

Outside the headphones, something moved beyond the door. Jacob only noticed because the light through the upper panel changed briefly. He took off one ear cup. Nothing else followed. He put it back.

The song had reached a part he liked. He listened, eyes on the photograph, and remembered the brief touch at Ethan's wrist beside Buck's new table. He'd let his fingers drop because he hadn't known whether Ethan wanted them there. Afterward, he'd held out his hand for a fastener. Ethan had put it in the bag instead. Jacob looked at his own hand on the arm of the chair, then took the headphones off.

The room was quiet enough. He got up and took his laundry from the chair. There wasn't much, a shirt he'd hung to air, two things waiting for the basket.

The song continued through the headphones where he'd left them on the desk, thin and faint. He paused it on his phone, then changed his mind and put the headphones back on.

This time he stood by the dresser and listened without trying to finish anything at the same time. His hand found the rhythm against his thigh. After a while he was singing under his breath, missing a word, finding the next part without going back. He'd done that before the work. He would do it after. The difference was that he didn't keep lowering his voice at the same point, preparing for somebody on the other side of the partition to hear him. He let the song finish.

Then he took the headphones off, set them properly on the desk, and looked at the clothes still in his hands. He hadn't finished putting those away at all. He hung the shirt back up and dropped the other things into the basket.

The bed was made badly. He left it. He sat on the edge and rested his forearms on his thighs. He remembered Ethan moving toward him again on the sofa.

He'd liked being wanted.

Jacob pressed his palms together and looked at them. He'd liked Ethan before the party. He liked him when he talked too quickly about class, when he failed to notice he was hungry, when he became intent on some small ridiculous thing and wanted Jacob to look. He liked him when the room was ordinary. That was making it difficult to use ordinary as evidence of anything.

A knock came at the door. Jacob looked up. "Yeah?"

"Can I bother you?"

He stood and slid the door open. Ethan held the novel, one finger marking his place. He'd changed into a loose shirt, his curls still damp at the edges, and was barefoot on the rug. "You're not," Jacob said.

"I know you said you were doing something."

"Finished."

"Okay." Ethan lifted the book a little. "Did you do this?" He showed him the pencil mark.

"That one's mine."

Ethan read the line again, his mouth moving slightly. Jacob watched him and then looked at the page because that was what he'd been asked to do.

"I don't agree," Ethan said.

Jacob took the book when it was offered and read the passage before the mark. He remembered arguing about it with Ravi, but Ethan was pointing to a line neither of them had mentioned.

"He sees the envelope before the rain," Ethan said. "So he knows it's there. It's not like he finds it afterward and works it out."

Jacob took the book closer to the lamp and checked the line. "I read that as later."

"It's before. Look."

Ethan pointed without taking the book from him. Jacob followed his finger, went back a paragraph, and found the part he'd skipped over when he was looking for proof of something else.

"Okay," he said. "That changes it."

"It changes what he knows. I don't know about the end." Ethan looked up quickly. "And I don't want to know."

Jacob checked the order again. He'd enjoyed arguing with Ravi, the two of them getting so certain they'd begun referring to scenes by where the other ought to remember them. Ethan had simply read the line in front of him. "You should tell Ravi," he said.

"I will." Ethan took the book back and tucked his finger between the pages. He hadn't come into the room. Jacob hadn't asked him to. They stood close enough for the opening to feel narrow without either being in the other's way.

"You can sit," Jacob said.

Ethan looked past him, then back. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

Ethan sat at the foot of the bed, leaving the quilt where it was. Jacob stayed by the desk for a moment before sitting on the other side. There was enough space between them that Ethan could have put the book down there. Ethan kept it in his hands.

"How was coffee?" Ethan asked.

"Good. Ravi said to keep it until you're done." Jacob looked at the bent corner of the paper bookmark. He liked that, Ethan taking something out with him because he wanted to know what happened next, coming to find Jacob because he disagreed with a mark in a margin.

"Okay." Ethan kept the book in his hands.

Ethan glanced at the desk lamp, the closed laptop, the shoes Jacob had finally stopped leaving under the bed. He was just sitting in the room. Jacob's shoulders loosened.

"What were you doing?" Ethan asked.

"Another application."

"Good one?"

"Could be. I put the October dates in."

"Good."

"We'll see," Jacob said. He'd done enough thinking about whether he could make himself fit for one afternoon. "I'm going swimming tomorrow."

Ethan looked up. "Where?"

"A pool. Public one. I checked the hours."

Jacob told him the time. Ethan looked at the book, then toward the opening, as if his schedule might be written somewhere beyond it.

"Can I come?"

"Yeah." The answer came fast enough that Ethan smiled. Jacob tried again, less quickly. "If you want. There's room."

"I want to."

"Okay." He looked down at his hands. He'd made a plan for himself and Ethan had asked to join it. He was pleased.

"I've got class later," Ethan said. "I can't stay forever."

"Neither can I."

"Okay."

They worked out when to leave. It took less than a minute.

Ethan shifted the book from one hand to the other. His knuckles brushed the quilt near Jacob's thigh. He left his hand there while he looked for the page again. Jacob watched the paper move beneath his thumb.

"There," Ethan said. "That's what I meant."

Jacob leaned in. Their shoulders touched, and he lost the beginning of the sentence. He read the line beneath it, went back, found Ethan's finger still waiting beside the right one.

"That one," Ethan said.

"I know." It came out too quickly. Jacob looked at him. "Sorry. I wasn't—go on."

Ethan's hand moved off the quilt. He pointed to the line again, using the corner of the bookmark this time. Jacob made himself read it before answering. "Yeah. I see it."

"Okay." Ethan closed the book around the strip of paper. He kept his finger there after the pages had stopped moving.

Jacob sat back. They'd had a page to check when they disagreed about the book. Now Ethan was beside him, quieter than he'd been at the door, and Jacob couldn't get past the first word. "You—"

Ethan looked up.

"You can keep it," Jacob said.

"I know." The edge of Ethan's mouth moved, almost a smile. "You said."

"Right." Jacob stood and went to the dresser for the towel he'd need in the morning. "I meant, you don't need to finish it tonight."

"I wasn't going to." Ethan stood, rubbing his thumb along the cover. "I should let you have your room."

"You don't have to go."

Ethan stopped with the book against his side. Jacob was holding the towel between both hands. "It's okay," Ethan said. "You've been trying to get stuff done."

Jacob folded the towel in half. He'd got up first. Now Ethan was at the door, and the question he'd meant to ask had become harder to get to. "Saturday," he said. "What time did your mom say?"

"Afternoon." Ethan looked at him. "Didn't she text you?"

"Yeah. She did. I meant when we should go."

"After lunch?"

"That works."

Ethan nodded and moved toward the opening. "Jee's got something planned."

Jacob nodded. Ethan went through the door.

Ethan went toward the kitchen. Jacob watched him set the book down, fill a glass, pick the book up again before he'd taken a drink.

"Your water," Jacob said.

"I know." Ethan looked down. "Right."

He drank. Jacob smiled and left him to it.

Back in his room, Jacob put the towel in the swimming bag, then opened the pool schedule on his phone again. Nothing had changed. He set the bag by the dresser, where he'd see it in the morning, and closed the door.

The quilt was still pressed flat where Ethan had sat. Jacob turned the desk lamp off and lay down without straightening it. Light from the loft softened the upper glass. He faced the wall at first, then turned back toward the door.

On the first Saturday in October, Jee inspected Ethan's shirt before she let him through the door. "That's okay," she decided.

"Glad I passed."

She looked past him at Jacob, considered his clothes for a moment, and stepped aside. Ethan heard Jacob thank her with a seriousness that nearly made him laugh.

Maddie stood in the living room with Nash against her shoulder. "She's been waiting."

"We're not late."

"I know."

Jee had already taken Ethan's hand. He managed to kiss his mother's cheek before being led toward the kitchen, where the open door showed a strip of sunlit courtyard and more chalk than he'd expected to exist in one household.

"You drew all this?"

"Some. Daddy did that." She pointed to a square. "It's the shop."

Chimney stood outside holding a piece of blue chalk. There was a white streak across one knee. "I was told to make it bigger," he said.

"It needed to be bigger," Jee told him.

Ethan went out to look. A path ran between blocks of color, curving around a large sun, a smaller circle she said was water, and a series of short lines whose purpose he hadn't yet discovered. There were places to stand, places not to stand, and a little pile of stones he was warned not to move.

"That's money."

"Okay."

"You need some." She gave him two stones, then looked at them and took one back. Ethan held the remaining stone carefully.

Jacob came through behind him. "What are we doing?"

"Shopping, apparently."

"You don't know yet," Jee said.

He looked at her. "That's true."

She put him on one part of the path and Jacob on another. Chimney was allowed to leave the shop only after she'd explained to him where he was meant to return.

He set the chalk on the ledge, flexed his fingers, and looked at Ethan. "Have fun."

"Where are you going?"

"Wash my hands. Briefly." Chimney escaped into the kitchen. Jee noticed but was busy telling Jacob why his foot couldn't be there, and Ethan put his stone in his pocket so he wouldn't lose it.

It was warm in the courtyard. Not the heavy heat of the worst part of summer, but enough that he was glad of the shade across one edge. The chalk colors looked paler where the sun hit them. His own shadow cut across a yellow square Jee had told him was somebody's house.

"You can go now."

"Where?"

She pointed. He followed the path, stepped around the water, and arrived at the shop just as Jacob was given permission to begin.

"What have you got?" Ethan asked.

Jee sat on the low stool and looked at the collection arranged beside her. Leaves, stones, three bright pieces of chalk, a little plastic cup. "Bread."

"I'd like some bread."

"We don't have any."

He looked at the leaf she'd just shown him. "Okay. What can I buy?"

She chose a different leaf, took his stone, and told him he could leave.

Jacob reached the shop behind him. "Bread?" he asked.

"Yes."

Ethan watched Jee give Jacob the leaf she'd refused to sell him. Jacob glanced his way, then looked down at the leaf.

"You can go home now," Jee reminded them.

They went. Ethan put his leaf down in the square she'd given him and went back for another stone. Jee caught his sleeve.

"No. Not yet."

"I need money."

"You have to stay."

"Okay."

He stopped. She pulled again, impatient with the part of his body that had already turned toward the shop.

"Jee," Maddie said from the door. "You can ask him. Don't pull."

Jee let go, her face tightening. "I wanted him there."

"Tell him."

For a moment she looked as though she might abandon the whole town. Ethan crouched beside the chalk house, keeping his feet clear of its walls. "Show me," he said. "I don't know yet."

She pointed to the space beside the leaf. "You have to eat it."

"Pretend?"

"Yes."

He made certain not to put it near his mouth, then performed a meal elaborate enough that she began to smile. Jacob watched from the other square with his own leaf in his hand.

"You need a plate?" he asked.

Jee decided they both did. She went to find two larger leaves, leaving Ethan crouched in his little house and Jacob waiting in his.

Jee returned with the leaves and put them down exactly where she wanted them. This time Ethan waited until she told him he could go.

By the third trip, Ethan had learned the route and almost none of the other rules. Jacob had become responsible for carrying something between the two houses. Chimney returned while Jee was explaining which patch of chalk was supposed to be a road.

"Not that," Jee said, pointing to the line beneath Ethan's foot.

He lifted it.

"That's the wall."

"Where can I put my foot?"

She showed him. The answer required a little hop. He made it, landed beyond the intended square, and had to put a hand against the real wall to stop himself.

Jacob laughed. Ethan glanced back at him, then checked where Jee wanted him to stand.

"I'm staying here," Jacob told her.

"No," Jee said. "You have to come."

He came, stepping carefully enough to satisfy her. Ethan didn't think that was fair, but Jee had moved on to a new problem with the shop, and there was nobody available to hear an appeal.

At the doorway, Maddie laughed quietly. Ethan looked over. She had Nash settled against her, one hand supporting his back while he watched the movement in front of him. His eyes found the blue chalk in Chimney's hand and stayed there.

"He wants that," Ethan said.

"He wants everything," Maddie replied.

"Not getting this," Chimney told his son, putting it farther away.

Nash turned his head when he moved. Ethan smiled and went back to the path, where Jee was waiting for him to understand that he had been given a job.

They played until his legs felt it, then until Jee's attention moved to the chalk on her own fingers. She put a hand on her pants, leaving a print, and stared at it with interest.

"That's why old clothes," Maddie said.

"I know."

"Come wash."

Jee wanted one more thing before she went in. She and Jacob added a second tree to the edge of the drawing while Ethan crouched to turn one of the small stones into something she would accept as a seat.

His shoulders objected to the position. He'd swum harder yesterday than he'd intended, trying to keep a pace that had felt easy for about three lengths. Jacob had waited at the end and asked whether Ethan wanted another. Ethan had said yes. He liked remembering the morning. He was less pleased with the back of his left shoulder.

"You done?" Jacob asked.

"I'm coming."

Jacob held the door while he stood. Ethan took the chalk Jee had left on the ground, put it on the ledge, and went in without trying to straighten the whole courtyard.

Inside, the kitchen smelled faintly of toast. A small pile of clean laundry occupied one end of the table, kept clear of the cups. Nash's nursery door stood open just off the kitchen; Maddie went in with him while Chimney helped Jee reach the sink.

Ethan washed after her. The water turned pale blue, then gray. He dried his hands on the towel Chimney passed him and looked down at the chalk across his knee.

"That'll come out," Chimney said.

"I know."

"Maddie did warn you."

"I wore the right pants."

Jacob came to the sink beside him, holding his hands away from his shirt. There was a yellow smudge along his forearm. Ethan watched the water run over it, remembered his own fingers at Jacob's temple, and looked away before the memory could become all he was doing.

Jee needed a drink. He could get her a drink. She accepted the cup, asked for a different one, then decided the first was fine when he reached for the cupboard. Ethan let himself laugh.

"You're tired," Chimney told her.

"No."

"Okay." He lifted her onto the chair she'd chosen when she held up her arms. "Sit here a minute."

She sat, drank, and leaned against his side when he stayed beside her.

Ethan found a place at the table. Jacob took the chair near him, leaving the little stack of towels where it was. For a while nobody moved them. Maddie came back with Nash awake in her arms.

"Want him?" she asked Ethan.

He held out his hands. She settled Nash against him, waited until he had the weight comfortably, then picked up her own cup from the counter. Ethan looked down at his brother. "Hi."

Nash studied him with a solemnity that didn't last. His mouth opened, his arm jerked, and his fingers found the loose fabric near Ethan's collar.

"That's mine." He left the grip alone. The shirt had already survived a chalk town.

Nash's fingers opened, caught the shirt again, then caught Ethan's finger when he offered it. Ethan turned his hand so the little grip could settle without bending anything awkwardly. The baby stared at him. "You remember me?" Ethan asked.

"He's deciding," Maddie said.

"Take your time." His brother made a sound that seemed to require a reply. Ethan gave him one, quietly, and watched the attention move from his face to the edge of his shirt. He held him and waited for the next sound.

Chimney put a folded cloth within reach. Ethan took it with his free hand, tucked it where he wanted it, and kept talking to Nash while the conversation around the table continued.

Jacob leaned a little closer. Nash's gaze moved toward him, then caught on the light beyond his shoulder.

Nash made a sound, and Ethan answered with something equally unhelpful. Maddie smiled into her cup. She sat down.

Chimney and Jacob started talking about Buck's move. Chimney had been over since, seen the boxes reduced to a smaller number and the keys exactly where Buck said he wanted them.

"He's got opinions about the kitchen now," Chimney said.

"Already had opinions," Jacob replied.

"More opinions."

Ethan smiled down at Nash. He could picture his uncle opening cupboards, finding his own plates where he'd put them. He liked that the house existed somewhere other than the day they'd helped carry things into it. "He looked happy," he said.

"He does," Maddie answered. "We should have him over for a movie."

Chimney looked at her. "Finish ours first."

"We can start another."

"We're halfway through two."

"I didn't like one of them."

Ethan looked up. "Which one?"

She told him. He'd seen it, badly, on a small screen with somebody talking over half of it. He couldn't remember enough to defend it.

Jacob had seen it too.

"The middle's better," he said.

"How much middle?" Chimney asked.

Jacob smiled. "I'm not promising."

Maddie laughed, turning her cup between her hands. "We get twenty minutes, then somebody needs something."

"Or one of us falls asleep," Chimney said.

"That was you."

"This time."

Ethan grinned. His mother's foot rested against Chimney's chair. When Chimney shifted, she moved with him without looking down, still arguing about which film they should finish. He reached behind her for something on the counter and left his hand on her shoulder when he came back. She covered it for a moment, then picked up her cup. Neither of them stopped talking.

Jacob was smiling at something Chimney had said. Ethan looked at him, meaning to share the joke, and found himself looking away as soon as Jacob turned. He adjusted the cloth beneath Nash's cheek instead. His brother's fingers were warm around his own.

Maddie asked Jacob what he thought of the ending. Ethan answered before he had. "Don't tell me."

She looked between them. "You've seen it."

"Badly." Ethan made himself smile. "I might try again."

"Then I won't." She changed the question, and Jacob answered it. Ethan listened, one hand under Nash's back.

Chimney asked Jacob about the shelf, then Jee interrupted to tell him it wasn't a shelf, it was a shop. Chimney explained that he meant the one at Jacob's house. She considered this, then asked whether it held bread. Jacob told her mostly books. She wasn't impressed.

Ethan laughed, the sound making Nash's hand open against his shirt. He rubbed a thumb over the small fist until it closed again. "Sorry," he murmured.

Nash didn't appear to mind. His eyes had returned to the brighter patch of kitchen.

Maddie watched them for a moment before asking how Ethan's week had been. He told her about class, the piece of work he'd finally submitted, the reading he'd put off until it was inconvenient.

"You finished it?"

"Enough."

She gave him a look. He grinned. "I finished it."

"Good. You heard back about the October paperwork?" she asked.

"Not all of it. They've got what I sent. I'm waiting for the separate clearance."

"But your place is booked."

"Yeah. That bit's done."

She nodded. "Okay."

"I'll tell you when they answer."

"You don't have to forward me every email."

"I wasn't going to." Her mouth curved. He smiled back. He'd once been certain that telling her one thing meant she would want to know every other thing attached to it. "I'm looking forward to it," he said.

"I know."

"Nervous too."

"That sounds about right."

He looked down at Nash's hand, still wrapped around his finger. Maddie reached over and eased a fold of cloth away from the baby's cheek, then withdrew her hand.

Across the table, Jacob was listening to Jee explain why one of the paper houses needed another window. Ethan watched him ask where she wanted it before picking up the pencil.

He could think about the course later. Right now he had a sleepy brother, a cup cooling beside him, and nowhere he needed to hurry.

He told her about the class he was looking forward to, something coming up that he'd assumed would be dull until he saw what they were actually doing.

She listened and asked a question, but before he could answer, Jee needed help with her cup.

Ethan looked toward Jacob. Jacob was listening to Chimney, one arm resting on the table, his expression open. He said something that made Chimney laugh, then shook his head when Jee tried to take the pencil beside his hand.

"You want paper?" he asked her.

She did. Maddie pointed toward the drawer, and he got up to find it.

Nash had begun to squirm. Ethan shifted him higher, checked the little hand caught in his collar, and looked at Maddie.

She held out her arms. "Come here, baby."

Ethan passed him over. For a second his own shirt stayed pulled toward the baby, then the fingers loosened and he was free.

"Strong," he said.

"When he wants to be."

She kissed Nash's head and went to settle him. Ethan stayed at the table while Jacob helped Jee choose which pencil she wanted, an apparently difficult decision after she'd been willing to steal the first one.

His knee touched Jacob's beneath the table when he moved his chair in. He'd been about to ask which pencil Jee had rejected. Jacob looked over, and Ethan moved his knee before either of them said anything. The chair leg caught against the floor with a short scrape.

"Sorry," Ethan said. He pulled his cup clear of Jee's paper.

Jacob's hand had come off the table. He set it down again beside the pencils. "You're okay."

"I know." Ethan asked which pencil Jee had rejected. Jacob pointed, and Jee took the one beside his hand, announcing it had been hers all along. Ethan laughed. Jacob shook his head at her, then moved his cup before her paper reached it.

Later, Chimney went outside to put the chalk away before the evening damp could reach it. Jacob helped him collect the loose pieces. Ethan stayed with Jee, who was drawing the town again, smaller this time, on paper she could take to her room.

"That's you," she said.

He looked at the tall figure beside a circle. "Which bit?"

She pointed.

"Good. I thought I might be the tree."

She laughed and added something to his head.

"Hair," she explained.

"Thanks."

He sat still while she gave the paper figure considerably more hair than he had, then watched her begin another person beside it.

Maddie came back and sat across from him, her cup refilled, her shoulders a little lower now Nash had settled.

Jee pushed a pencil toward him. "You do this."

"What is it?"

"The door."

He drew it carefully, leaving the part she'd already colored intact. She watched his hand, then took the pencil back to add the handle herself.

Maddie leaned closer to see. "That's a good house."

"It's a shop," Jee said.

"A good shop."

She accepted that and kept drawing. Ethan sat back, the small task finished, and found his mother looking at him instead of the paper.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"You look tired."

"Swimming."

She looked at him.

"Yesterday. I thought I could do more than I could."

"Ah."

"I'm fine."

"Good."

He smiled, and she reached across to smooth one curl off his forehead, moving it back where it had been before he shook it loose outside. He let her.

When Jacob and Chimney returned, Jee held up the drawing before they'd had time to shut the door. "Look."

They looked. Jacob found himself on the paper after Jee showed him, thanked her, and sat down while she added the last thing she'd decided was missing.

Ethan watched his mother listen to Chimney, watched Jee bend over the page, watched Jacob move the pencils out of her elbow's path. He wanted another hour with all of them. The cups were almost empty, and he picked up Maddie's before she could carry it to the sink.

"Want more?" he asked.

"I was going to ask you."

"Yeah. Please." He looked at Jacob. "You?"

Jacob nodded and handed his over. Ethan took both cups to the counter. Behind him, Jee began explaining the last part of the drawing, and his mother laughed. He filled the kettle and let the tap run a moment longer than he needed. There was still time before dinner. He didn't have to take them both back to the quiet loft yet.

Ethan put Jee's drawing on the refrigerator and stood back to see if it was straight. It wasn't. He moved the magnet, then left it. Two figures, an enormous amount of hair on one of them, a shop Jee had identified several times before deciding they understood. The magnet covered an empty corner, not anybody's face.

Jacob turned the faucet off and looked at the drawing. "That's good." Ethan nodded and went to get the vegetables while Jacob set the rinsed rice to cook, lowering the heat when he needed to.

The loft held the warmth of the day. They'd opened the lower terrace doors, letting cooler air reach the living room, and turned on the lamp beside the chair rather than every light overhead. Outside, the table was clear except for the plant they'd moved back after the work. With the boxes and tools cleared away, the door to Jacob's room stood half open. Ethan could see the edge of the desk lamp inside, switched off.

"Mushrooms?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"All of them?"

Jacob looked at the packet. "We might as well."

They hadn't brought dinner back from Maddie's. There had been food, enough that Ethan wasn't hungry when they left, but the afternoon had moved on and he wanted something warm. Rice, mushrooms, the vegetables they needed to use before buying more. Jacob had measured out the rice while Ethan found a clean shirt. The chalk pants were in the laundry basket now. The chalk on his hand had proved more determined. He rubbed his thumb once beneath the faucet, dried it, and began cutting.

Jacob got the pan. He moved around Ethan without needing him to step aside, set it on the stove, and reached for the oil. A familiar little sequence, altered only by the attention Ethan paid to the arm passing near his shoulder. Ethan looked down at the board.

"How much?" Jacob asked.

Ethan showed him with his fingers, still holding the knife carefully away. Jacob poured a little oil into the pan. "That much?"

"Yeah." Ethan turned back to the mushrooms while Jacob waited for the pan to heat.

They worked without hurrying. They had the evening to themselves; if the rice took a few minutes longer, they could sit down. Neither would be driving anywhere afterward. Ethan liked being able to know that at the start.

His phone lit up near the end of the island. Rose had sent a photograph of something she'd made, the image close enough that he had to enlarge it to understand the shape. "Look," he said, turning the screen toward Jacob.

Jacob leaned closer. The second picture showed the outside of a bowl. Ethan sent Rose a reply and set the phone down. Jacob's hand rested on the counter beside his, close enough that their elbows nearly touched.

"You want these in now?" Ethan asked.

"Yeah."

He tipped the mushrooms into the pan. The first hiss made him lift the board back too quickly, leaving several pieces behind. Jacob held out his hand for it.

"Got them."

Their fingers met around the edge. Ethan let go after he needed to. Jacob scraped the last pieces in, gave him the board, and reached for the spoon. Nothing in his face told Ethan whether he'd noticed. Ethan washed the knife.

In the pan, the mushrooms began to darken. Jacob left them alone long enough to make Ethan want to interfere, then turned them just as he was deciding to ask. Ethan went to get the bowls.

He took the bowls and two cups outside, up the two steps from the living room, and put them on the table. The terrace was cooler than he'd expected. He set the cups closer to the middle so neither would find an edge in the dimmer light.

From here he could see Jacob in the kitchen, his head bent toward the stove. The black frame of his bedroom door caught the light beyond him. A clean line, ordinary now. Ethan had imagined so many versions of what might change if they kissed. He hadn't pictured this one clearly enough: the same person standing at the same stove, the same wish to go back inside and be near him. He went back.

Jacob passed him a spoon. "Taste?"

Ethan did, waited for it to cool in his mouth, then took a smaller second taste because the first had been mostly heat. "Good."

"Anything else?"

"Maybe a little more." He pointed to the bottle.

Jacob added it, stirred, and tried some himself. Ethan watched his mouth close around the spoon and made himself look away.

There were drinks to carry outside. He could carry drinks.

They ate as the remaining light faded. The rice was hot, the mushrooms browned enough to have been worth leaving alone. Ethan admitted that after his first few mouthfuls. "These are better," he said. "I'd have kept moving them."

Jacob smiled and took another mouthful. Ethan tried some of the vegetables.

Maddie had sent the photograph of the chalk town before they started putting things away. Ethan opened it and turned the screen toward Jacob.

Ethan's elbow and one side of his face were visible, hair in the sun, one hand still holding a leaf. Jacob stood farther back, looking toward Jee. Maddie had caught the moment without asking anybody to arrange themselves.

"Nash had your shirt for a while," Jacob said.

Ethan smiled. "He's welcome to it." He liked the way Jacob remembered things from his family's afternoon without needing Ethan to explain why they mattered. "Mom said she'll send you the picture," he told him.

"She already did." Jacob looked pleased. "I've got it."

Ethan saved the picture before setting the phone beside his bowl.

Jacob told him about the cardboard Christopher had painted. The blue had looked good; the orange was bright enough that Jacob wasn't certain it had been deliberate. Chris had sent another picture after trying Jacob's suggestion with the camera lower. It looked as though he'd got it to stand.

Ethan nodded, imagining Christopher and Denny moving things by fractions, arguing about what the screen could see. He'd liked watching them at the Wilsons'. They could be intent on something and ridiculous about it in the same minute.

"You should ask to see it when they're done," Jacob said.

"I will."

Jacob smiled at him across the table. Ethan looked down at his bowl before the simple fact of being smiled at could make him forget what they were talking about.

They ate the rest without much conversation. Ethan was hungry enough now that talking would have meant letting the food cool. Across from him, Jacob stretched his legs a little farther under the table and caught Ethan's shoe.

"Sorry."

"You're fine." He left his foot where it was.

When they finished, Jacob took the bowls while Ethan carried the drinks. They went in together, the light from the living room spreading across the two steps. Ethan closed the terrace doors after checking the table was clear. The shared room looked warm from this side of the glass. They put the food away, washed the pan, left the last things to dry. Ethan wiped the counter while Jacob checked the stove. It took less time than dinner had taken to make.

Before sitting down, Ethan photographed the drawing on the refrigerator and sent it to Maddie. Just the paper and the magnet, not the whole kitchen. He added a thank-you for the afternoon, then set the phone down while he dried the board.

Ethan looked back at the drawing. The paper was still crooked, but the figures and the shop were clear. He liked the way it looked among the ordinary things on the refrigerator, not framed or put somewhere nobody would touch it. "Jee can fix it when she comes over."

Jacob smiled. "She will."

Maddie's reply arrived as Ethan put the board away.

Maddie: She'll be so pleased. We loved having you both here.

Ethan read it, smiling, and put the phone facedown. Jacob was standing beside him.

"You doing anything?" Jacob asked.

Ethan looked up. "Tonight?"

"Yeah."

"No." He could read. There were things he could prepare for tomorrow, a message he hadn't answered, a page he'd meant to look at. None of it needed the next hour. "You?"

Jacob shook his head. "No."

They stood in the kitchen, neither making the move that would send them toward separate rooms. Ethan put the cloth over the edge of the sink. "Want to watch something?"

"Yeah."

He went to the sofa. Jacob followed with the cups they hadn't finished, putting them on coasters before sitting down.

Ethan chose a place close enough that Jacob wouldn't have to lean across the whole sofa to see his phone. They went through several possibilities, rejected the one Maddie hadn't finished, and stopped on The Mummy, which Jacob remembered watching years ago.

"I remember a boat," Ethan said.

"There's a boat." Jacob took the remote when Ethan held it out and selected the film. The opening was familiar to Ethan too, though he couldn't remember having seen the rest.

Jacob's arm rested along the back of the sofa. Ethan shifted with the old, unconsidered wish to get comfortable, and his shoulder met Jacob's upper arm. He'd done that before. This time Jacob went still, and Ethan looked up before he could decide not to. Jacob was looking down at him.

"I'm not falling asleep already," Ethan said.

Jacob's mouth moved. "Good."

Ethan looked at the screen. He stayed against Jacob's arm, but his shoulder had tightened. He could feel every small movement behind it. When Evy started losing the library shelves, he laughed with the relief of remembering something that had nothing to do with this room.

Jacob laughed too. Ethan felt the movement through his arm and almost settled back. Then Jacob leaned forward for his cup, and Ethan sat up, drawing his knees away so he could reach. Jacob stopped for a moment with his hand around the cup.

"You can get it," Ethan said.

"I know." Jacob took a drink. When he sat back, his arm rested beside his own leg. Ethan's shoulder was against the cushion now.

At the riverboat, Ethan recognized the scene he'd been thinking of. He glanced at Jacob, then at the arm resting beside his leg. He waited for Jacob to put it back along the sofa, then wished he'd moved close enough that Jacob wouldn't have to decide what it meant to do it. On the screen, Rick and Evy were arguing. Ethan heard the voices without catching the words.

"Did you want to go back?" Jacob asked.

"No." Ethan looked at the remote in Jacob's hand. "Actually, yeah. Sorry."

Jacob rewound the film a little. They watched the exchange again, and this time Ethan made himself follow it. He laughed when Jacob did. There were things he wanted to point out, and sometimes he managed it before remembering how little distance there ought to have been between them.

He remembered laughing against Jacob's shoulder between the kisses, their noses catching as he leaned in again. He'd still wanted another when Jacob stopped. He wanted one now, sitting with his hands closed loosely between his knees.

Beside him, Jacob reached for the blanket on the arm of the sofa. He pulled it over his own legs, then offered Ethan the edge. Ethan took it and spread it across his knees. For a moment the fabric lay slack between them. He gathered some into his lap until the fold between them lay flat.

Later, Jacob paused the film and put his feet down. Ethan lifted the blanket clear before Jacob stood.

"Just getting water," Jacob said.

"I know." Ethan let the blanket fall onto his own legs. "Could you get me some?"

"Of course."

He watched Jacob take their cups to the kitchen, past the rug and the end of the island. The tap ran. At the sink, Jacob looked back, and Ethan turned toward the paused screen. His face had grown warm. There hadn't been anything to hide in looking at the person getting his water.

Jacob came back with both cups. Ethan had moved the blanket off the cushion beside him. Jacob glanced at the cleared place, handed him his drink, and sat at the other end. Ethan set his cup back on its coaster. Jacob put his own down, drew the free end of the blanket back over his knees, and picked up the remote.

"Here?" Ethan asked, touching the blanket beside his knee.

Jacob looked up. "What?"

Ethan's fingers tightened in the fabric. He could move it farther, make the invitation clearer. Instead he picked up his cup. "Nothing. I was getting this out of the way."

"Okay." Jacob waited another moment before starting the film. Ethan drank, though he hadn't been thirsty enough to need it yet.

They finished watching. Ethan had guessed one part wrong and was pleased about it; Jacob admitted he'd forgotten almost everything except the opening. Ethan turned toward him, then looked back at the credits.

The screen went dark. In the quieter room, Ethan could hear the edge of the blanket moving under Jacob's fingers. The scar near his thumb caught the lamplight. Ethan knew what had made it. He knew which mug Jacob reached for, how his voice changed when he talked to Christopher, how to sit beside him for an evening. He had known how to do that.

"Are you going to bed?" Ethan asked.

Jacob looked at him, then at the clock. "If you're tired."

"Are you?"

"I could be." His hand stopped on the blanket. "You?"

Ethan looked at the place between them. He wanted to move across it. He wanted Jacob to understand that without Ethan having to put the whole of it into a question. "A little," he said.

Jacob nodded. "Okay."

Neither moved at first. Then Ethan sat forward, and Jacob began taking the blanket off their legs. Ethan held the edge a moment too long. Jacob stopped pulling. They looked at each other over it.

"Go ahead," Ethan said, and let go.

Jacob folded it across his knees. Ethan picked up the cups. His hand shook enough that the water moved against the side, and he put one down before trying to carry both. Jacob reached for it, but Ethan already had it again. "It's okay. I'll do them."

He took them to the sink and rinsed them one at a time. The water was too loud. Behind him, Jacob refolded the blanket so it would fit over the arm of the sofa. Ethan could see him in the dark terrace glass, bent over the small task. He turned the faucet off.

At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped. Jacob was near the island now, looking at the drawing on the refrigerator. He moved the magnet away from one of Jee's lines and left the paper crooked.

"Jacob."

Jacob turned immediately. "Yeah?"

Ethan had his hand on the stair rail. Jacob was watching him, waiting for something more than good night. He could ask him to sit down again. He could walk back across the room. His fingers pressed against the rail, and he heard himself say, "Night."

Jacob's eyes moved over his face. "Night, Ethan."

He stayed at the bottom for another moment. Jacob hadn't turned away. Ethan took the first step, then the next. Below him, Jacob moved back toward the sofa.

His bedroom was open to the room below. Ethan put his phone beside the bed, checked the alarm twice because he hadn't taken in the numbers the first time, and changed with the light low. He heard Jacob go to the bathroom. When the door opened again, Ethan sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on the phone.

The sliding door settled into its frame. Ethan took his hand off the phone and lay back. He'd wanted to stay beside Jacob. He'd asked whether Jacob was going to bed. Now they were both where he'd made it sound as though he wanted to be.