It was a party down the street, a backyard barbecue in a house painted pink, Reedies still in town for the summer. Ray’d gone home for a week and Leah was on a date with a guy David only knew from online as omg_kittensss. Ray’d had to sell David on the party: “Go! Go. They always like seeing you.” David could be timid at these things when Ray wasn’t around.

They were innocent kids, the Reedies at that house. Girls who talked to their moms twice a day and would think nothing of asking them hard questions about sex. Boys newly enamoured with bumming smokes from strangers, boys who visited the county voting office on primary day because they’d lost their mail-in ballot and proclaimed upon return, “It was a microcosm of America.”

At sunset they made a fire, and one girl said they should all roast marshmallows, and a boy said, “Did you know you can roast sour candy?!” and then half the party was off to the store. When they got back, a girl sat beside David, tapped out a smoke, and then cursed. The girl was tall, wore a soft green sweater, had wavy black hair and ruddy skin. She had white glasses and a gigantic purse with a zipper.

“I left my fuckin’ lighter at the Plaid. Let me tell you about ten-minutes-ago Iris, she’s a real asshole.”

“Do you buy cartons?” said one of the boys, giving her a light. “They’re cheap at this place on Foster.”

“No,” she exhaled. “Buying a carton would mean I’m addicted.” She was absolutely serious, zero irony, and this made it the funniest fucking thing David had ever heard. He snorted loud and Iris turned to face him. “I don’t think I know you.”

David was hunched over in his blue-and-white hoodie, his mussed dishwater-blond hair. He had a quiet, polite-boy mode when he met new people.

Where did you grow up? “Brookline, Massachusetts.” Adding not unkindly in response to David’s confused face, “It’s a bougie suburb of Boston.”

What was that like? “Lot of basements.” (David thought that was hilarious, too.)

What are you studying? “Political science. Don’t ask me what my thesis is. I’ve got no fucking clue.”

What are you doing this summer? “Working at a pie shop. This town’s a trip, you know? We put out a help wanted sign yesterday, and we got two hundred fucking resumés.”

What brought you out here? “I’d never lived anywhere else. It was my version of running away.”

And then, as the fire died and the party filtered into the house, Iris said, “I’m making an exit. And then I’m making some mac and cheese. Come with me?” The question mark barely there. Not “Do you want to come with me?” Come with me.

“We could go to my place?” he blurted. “I have a box there.”

“No,” Iris said. “We have to go to the store. I need Stouffer’s brand. It’s bougie, I know.”