"And I answered." He stared at his hands.
"What did you tell her?" Michael asked gently.
"About Mom. About the bus. About Mrs. Figueroa's soup." Ethan shrugged. "She asked if I was happy here. I said yes. She asked what I'd change, and I said nothing, and then I felt bad because Mom always says there's no such thing as nothing."
"Can we go?"
They drove home in silence. Lily, sensing the mood, didn't chatter. At a red light, Michael glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Ethan turning the blue hair tie around his wrist, around and around.
That evening, Dr. Patel called Michael. "Mr. Rourke, I want you to know your daughter is remarkable."
"She gets that from her mother," Michael said. "Both of them, actually."
"She told me, and I quote, 'Ethan's my brother and Daddy's a good dad.' She also told me the only thing that scares her is Ethan leaving."
"She drew me a picture, too," Dr. Patel said. "Two stick figures holding hands. She said Ethan drew the original and it's on your fridge."
"It is," Michael said, surprised. "She told you about the fridge?"
"She tells me everything, Mr. Rourke. It's my favorite part of the job."
A pause. "And your son, Ethan, told me he doesn't want to be the reason Lily loses her dad."
Michael closed his eyes. "He said that?"
"He's carrying a great deal of responsibility for an eight-year-old. He believes that if he weren't here, there would be no case, no lawyers, no risk to Lily." Dr. Patel's voice was gentle. "You might want to talk to him about that."
"I will."
"He also told me," she added, "that you're the first person who ever told him the test was just paperwork."
After he hung up, Michael sat in the parked car a long time. The apartment windows were warm above him. He could see Lily's silhouette in her room, probably reorganizing something. Ethan's smaller shadow beside her.
He thought about what Dr. Patel had said: He believes that if he weren't here, there would be no case.
Michael went upstairs. The kids were on Lily's bed, the planets book open between them, Spike standing guard on the pillow.
"Team meeting," Michael announced.
"Is this a good team meeting or a bad team meeting?" Lily asked.
"Good." He sat on the edge of the bed. "Ethan. Dr. Patel told me what you said. About not wanting to be the reason."
Ethan went still.
"Listen to me." Michael waited until Ethan met his eyes. "You are not the reason for anything bad. You are the reason Lily learned Jupiter has seventy-nine moons. You are the reason there's a drawing on our fridge. The lawyers are here because grown-ups make things complicated, not because of you."
"But if I'd never asked—"
"If you'd never asked, I'd have one child instead of two, and I'd be poorer for it." Michael's voice was steady. "Do you understand? Poorer."
Ethan's eyes filled. Lily threw her arms around him. "See? Told you. Brothers don't leave."
"Okay," Ethan whispered. "Okay."
Lily immediately declared a group hug, which lasted until Michael's arm fell asleep. Then she announced that the team needed a name, and Ethan suggested "The Planets," and Lily said that was perfect, and Michael wrote it at the top of his list, because some lists are about more than tasks.
Later, after bedtime, Michael stood in the kitchen and looked at his list. He crossed off "Evaluator" and wrote: "Tell Ethan every day."
His phone buzzed. Jonah: "Patel's report is strong. The kids carried it. Hearing's set for late November. We're ready."
Michael put the phone down. Late November. Three weeks. He looked at the drawing on the fridge, the two stick kids holding hands, and he thought about Dr. Patel's star next to Lily's sentence.
He added one more line to the list: "Believe the star."
Then he stood at the window and thought about stars: Lily's wishes, Ethan's planets, and Dr. Patel's inked star in her notebook.
Chapter 16: The Fountain Again
Michael woke to the sound of the front door closing, soft as a secret.
He was out of bed before he was awake, down the hall in his t-shirt. Lily's room: Lily asleep, globe glowing. The living room: the couch empty, the blankets folded with military precision. The paper bag gone from its spot by the door.
Ethan was gone.
Michael's hands shook as he dialed. Karen picked up on the first ring, because sisters know.
"He's gone. The bag's gone. He left at dawn."
"I'm coming. Call the hospital, call Mrs. Figueroa, then call me back."
He called Mrs. Figueroa. She hadn't seen him. He called the hospital; Claire was asleep, and he didn't have the heart to wake her. Then he stood in the living room, breathing hard, and did what Ethan would do: he thought about where a scared eight-year-old would go.
But Michael already knew where he was. He knew the way Ethan memorized places, and there was only one place that mattered.
"Lily," he said, kneeling by her bed. "Wake up, sweetheart. Ethan's gone to the park. We're going to get him."
Lily sat up instantly. "The fountain?"
"The fountain."
They drove through empty streets, Lily in her pajamas under her coat, clutching Spike. The park was gray and misted, the fountain throwing its white arcs into the cold morning air.
And there, on the far edge, sat Ethan. Paper bag in his lap. Watching the water.
Michael's chest unlocked. He walked over slowly, Lily beside him, and sat down on the fountain's edge next to his son. For a while nobody spoke.
"Hi," Ethan said finally, not looking up.
"Hi," Michael said.
Lily climbed up on Ethan's other side and put Spike between them like a mediator.