Lettie gives me a bird eye, her head tipped to the side. But she drops the subject. “Great, then. I won’t look a gift pizza in the mouth.” She flips the lid of her box open and sniffs. “Chili?”

I nod.

She smacks her lips together. “Excellent.”

LETTIE’S HALFWAY THROUGH the pizza before she says anything. I don’t mind. It’s a comfortable silence. I give the ginger beer a try. It’s warming, sweet and spicy on my tongue even as the coldness of it sliding down my throat makes me shiver slightly. I pull your coat around me a bit tighter. I’ve got pizza on the sleeve; they only roll up so far, and every time I reach in for another slice they drag in the cheese. It doesn’t upset me like it usually would.

“So, you’re friends with that kid up the street, are you?” Her voice is casual in a way that makes it clear she doesn’t like him.

I shrug. “Not really.”

“You met his mum?”

“No.”

She grunts and drops some cheese into her mouth. “She’s a busybody, that one.” She gives me her bird eye again, sharp as a magpie. “Got her face up in everyone else’s business.”

I nod, thinking about what Oscar said about Lettie.

Lettie’s eyes glisten in the porch light, more owl than magpie now, and I think of the dark inside her house. Makes sense.

“Did he say something to you? About me?” She leans forward, watching my face.

Oscar’s not my friend. I’m not sure what Lettie is. But I’m sitting on her front porch eating pizza, and Splinter’s head is resting on her foot. I’ve been around people enough to know that telling anyone something someone else said never works out well. Lettie’s still watching me with those bird eyes. She leans forward. “He did, didn’t he?”

I say nothing.

She leans back and nods. “I knew it.” She drops her crust in the box and the sound makes Splinter pop his head up, ears lifted. She gives it to him. He scoops it out of her hand with his tongue, and when he’s done chomping he gives her fingers a good licking too. She doesn’t even notice. Her gaze is turned down the street, face all pointy like it used to be when we first started talking.

“Say something about my house, did he? Call it a health hazard or some bullsh—” She looks at me. “Nonsense.”

The return of the old-goat face reminds me it’s cold and dark and your jacket’s a bit uncomfortable under the arms when I sit in it, the way the extra fabric bunches up. And it’s Saturday. It’s been four Saturdays now. Not counting that day.

“Well?”