"No." Ethan paused. "Will it hurt?"
"It's just a cheek swab. Like brushing your teeth, except someone else does it."
The nurse was a woman named Rosa with kind eyes and quick hands. She explained everything twice, once for Michael and once for Ethan, and let Ethan hold the sealed swab kit before she opened it.
"Open wide," she said. "Thirty seconds each side. You're doing great."
Ethan was very brave about it. Michael was, absurdly, less brave, and Rosa pretended not to notice.
"Five business days," she said, labeling the envelopes. "We'll call the number on file."
Ethan looked at the two sealed envelopes. "That's it? That's the whole test?"
"That's the whole test," Rosa said. "Science is mostly waiting."
In the parking lot, Ethan was quiet. "What if it's no?" he asked finally.
Michael unlocked the car. "Then we figure out the next thing. But it's not going to be no."
"You don't know that."
"I know that photo. I know your face." Michael started the engine. "Some things you know before the paperwork catches up."
Ethan considered this. "Like the photo."
"Like the photo," Michael agreed.
Ethan nodded, but he held the paper bag tighter.
It was Michael's weekend, so Lily was there for dinner, and the apartment had settled into a strange new normal: Lily's backpack by the door, Ethan's bag on the couch, the drawing on the fridge, Spike the stegosaurus standing guard on the windowsill.
Dinner was pasta, because Michael had finally bought real groceries and pasta was the only thing he could make without consulting the internet. Lily twirled noodles with intense focus.
"So," she said, not looking up, "is he going to live here forever?"
The question landed like a dropped glass. Michael looked at Ethan, who had gone very still, his fork halfway to his mouth.
"Lily," Michael said carefully, "Ethan's mom is having surgery next week. Right now he needs a place to be. That's what family does."
"But is it forever?" Lily pressed. "Because my room is my room."
"Lily."
"What? It's a question." She finally looked up, and her eyes were bright in a way that meant she was upset and covering it with bluntness. "Everything's different now. You spend all your time on the phone. You missed my spelling words yesterday."
Ethan set his fork down quietly. "I can go to Mrs. Figueroa's," he said. "It's fine."
"No," Michael said, too fast. Then, softer: "No. Nobody's going anywhere. Lily, come here."
"I don't want to."
"Lily."
She came, dragging her feet, and stood beside his chair with her arms crossed. Ethan watched from across the table, small and silent, already making himself disappear the way kids do when they think they're the problem.
"Sweetheart," Michael said, "listen to me. You are my daughter. That has never changed and it will never change. Not because of a test, not because of anything. Do you believe me?"
She shrugged, which meant yes but she wasn't ready to say it.
"Ethan needed someone this week. That doesn't take anything away from you. There's no limited amount of dad. It's not like pizza."
"There's always limited pizza," Lily muttered.
"There's not limited dad," Michael said firmly. "That's the rule. And you don't get to make Ethan feel like he's in the way. He's eight and his mom is in the hospital. You know how you'd feel."
Lily glanced at Ethan, and her face crumpled a little. "Sorry," she mumbled.
"It's okay," Ethan whispered.
"No, it's not," Lily said, and crossed to his chair and hugged him hard around the shoulders, fiercely, the way she did everything. "You can live here as long as you want. Even forever. But you have to share the bathroom and you can't touch my globe without asking."
Ethan laughed, a real one, startled out of him. "Deal."
Later, after Lily was in bed, Michael found Ethan on the couch, not sleeping, turning the bus pass over in his hands.
"Hey," Michael said, sitting on the coffee table. "You okay?"
Ethan nodded, then shook his head. "She didn't mean it."
"She meant some of it. She's seven and her whole world tilted this week. But she loves you already. Did you see the hug? That was a real hug. She doesn't do fake hugs."
"She hugged Mrs. Delgado once and Mrs. Delgado cried," Ethan said.
"See?" Michael said. "Certified."
"What if the test says no?" Ethan asked, very quietly. "Will Lily still want me here?"
Michael thought about the photo, the lake, Claire's laugh. He thought about eight years of Mrs. Figueroa's soup and bus rides and a paper bag packed in a hurry on a Monday.
"Yes," he said. "And I'll still want you here. The test tells us what the blood says. It doesn't tell us what to do about it. I already know what to do about it."
Ethan was quiet a long time. Then: "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Did you really take that picture?"
"I did. Best afternoon of that whole summer."
Ethan nodded, satisfied, and tucked the bus pass under his pillow like a ticket to somewhere. "Good night, Dad," he said, trying the word out like a new shoe.
Michael's throat closed. "Good night, Ethan."