Lily grabbed Ethan's sleeve. "Right. You can see my room. I have a globe that lights up."
Claire looked at Michael, and he saw the war in her face: pride versus practicality. Practicality won, barely. "Homework," she said to Ethan. "And teeth. And you call Mrs. Figueroa before eight so she doesn't worry."
"Yes, ma'am," Ethan said.
In the elevator Lily appointed herself tour director. "Our building has fourteen floors and we're on the top one, which is basically the sky. Dad has eight suits. Eight. I counted."
"Why eight?" Ethan asked.
"Because there are five workdays and three backups," Lily and Michael said together, and Lily giggled.
The apartment was exactly as Michael had left it that morning: shoes aligned by the door, mail stacked by size, the kitchen counters empty enough to reflect the ceiling lights. Lily kicked off her shoes into the middle of the floor, a small act of anarchy, and dragged Ethan down the hall.
"My room first. Then the kitchen, which is boring. Then Dad's office, which is extra boring."
Ethan set his paper bag on the coffee table with great care, as if it might spill. "Can I unpack it? Mom says I should keep my things together."
"Let's see everything," Lily said, sitting cross-legged.
One by one the treasures came out. A library book about the planets, the spine soft with reading. A plastic stegosaurus with one chipped plate. Lily picked it up. "Does he have a name?" "Spike," Ethan said. "He survived the dryer. That's why the plate's chipped." A bus pass in a cracked plastic sleeve. "For the 14," Ethan said. "Mom laminated it with packing tape so it lasts." A small envelope, worn thin, holding the photograph. And a crayon drawing on folded paper: a house with a crooked chimney, a sun with a smiling face, and two stick-figure kids holding hands in front of the door.
Lily picked up the drawing. "Who are these?"
Ethan glanced at Michael, then back at the paper. "That's you and Lily," he said quietly. "I didn't know your names yet."
Lily stared at him. "You drew us before you met us?"
"I drew what I wanted," Ethan said. "Mom says if you draw something enough, your brain starts looking for it."
Michael had to turn away for a moment and pretend to check the thermostat. When he turned back, Lily had laid the drawing flat on the coffee table and was smoothing the creases with her palm, the way you smooth something you intend to keep.
"I'm putting this on the fridge," she announced. "Dad, get a magnet."
They ordered food because Michael's refrigerator contained condiments, eggs, and a withered lemon. While they waited, Ethan called Mrs. Figueroa from the kitchen phone, standing very straight.
"Yes, ma'am. We're at Mr. Rourke's. Yes, ma'am, I ate. Chicken soup yesterday, and today I'll eat whatever comes." A pause. "No, ma'am, I won't forget. Thank you."
He hung up and saw Michael watching. "She worries," Ethan said, as if apologizing for being worried about.
"She sounds like a good neighbor," Michael said.
"She's the best neighbor on Eddyston Street," Ethan said solemnly. "She says so herself."
Dinner was cartons on the coffee table, and Lily narrated the planets book for Ethan, who clearly knew it better than she did but let her perform anyway. Michael watched his daughter do voices for Jupiter and felt something in his chest he did not have a name for.
At nine, Lily declared a sleepover. "Ethan gets the couch, I get the floor in a sleeping bag, it's basically camping."
"Lily's room has a bed," Michael said. "A real one. Barely used."
"The floor is better," Lily said. "More adventure."
Michael made up the couch with blankets while the kids brushed their teeth side by side in the bathroom, Lily instructing Ethan on the exact order of operations as if he had never encountered toothpaste. When the lights were out and the apartment had gone quiet, Michael stood in the hallway listening to the murmur of two kids negotiating the planets.
Then Ethan's voice, small and awake: "Mr. Rourke?"
Michael stepped into the living room doorway. "It's Michael. Or Dad, if you want. Either is fine."
A pause. "Will you send me away?"
The question landed like a stone in still water. Michael crossed the room and sat on the edge of the couch. In the dim light from the hallway, Ethan's face was very young and very serious.
"No," Michael said. "Where would I send you? You're my son."
"But the test—"
"The test is paperwork. This is the part that counts." Michael tucked the blanket around him, feeling clumsy and certain at the same time. "You're not going anywhere. Sleep."
Ethan's eyes stayed open a moment longer, searching his face. Then they closed. From the floor, Lily whispered, "Good answer, Dad," and was asleep within a minute.
Michael stood there a while. Then he went to the kitchen and called Rachel. It rang three times.
"It's late," she said.
"Lily's sleeping over. Extraordinary circumstances. I'll explain everything tomorrow morning."
A beat. "Is she all right?"
"She's fine. Better than fine." He looked down the hall toward the living room. "I'll call at eight."
He hung up, turned off the kitchen light, and stood in his dark, orderly apartment listening to two children breathe. Everything had a place. He was beginning to understand that the places were going to have to move.
Chapter 7: Telling Rachel
Michael made the call at eight, standing at the kitchen counter with his second coffee, watching Lily teach Ethan how to work the toaster as if it were industrial equipment.
"Rachel," he said when she picked up. "It's me. Lily's fine. But I need to tell you something, and I need you to let me finish before you respond."
"That sentence has never once led anywhere good," Rachel said.
He told it straight, the way he'd learned to deliver bad news in court: facts first, in order. The park. The boy. The photograph. The hospital. Claire.
The silence on her end lasted long enough that he checked the screen to see if the call had dropped.
"Say something," he said.
"I'm deciding which question to ask first," Rachel said. "Are you sure?"
"The photo is mine. I took it. The math works."
"Has there been a test?"
"Not yet. Friday, probably. There's a clinic—"