“Why?” her mother’s voice went up into a higher register. “What happened to the other place? Did you get thrown out?”

Laura frowned. “There was a little fire, so I moved into a friend’s house, the landlord lives on-site, there are plenty of people . . .” She waited for her mother’s reaction. She didn’t have to wait long.

“A fire?” Her mother’s voice would soon only be audible to dogs.

“I wasn’t there, no one was hurt”—Laura hoped this was true—“and I found another place immediately.” It was always best, people had discovered, to present Dr. Costello (female, senior; there were four other Dr. Costellos in their family, all male, three of them younger) with a problem that had already been solved, as otherwise she was inclined to freak out and demand to be involved.

“Who started the fire?” Her mother’s tone was a familiar one to Laura, a combination of concern and imminent judgment.

“No idea,” said Laura. “Maybe it was electrical, you know.”

“Hmm,” said her mother, clearly preferring a team of highly trained arsonists. “Is the new place in a safe neighborhood?”

“Yes, very,” replied Laura. “Hancock Park.”

“Never heard of it,” her mother sniffed. “Is it near Beverly Hills?”

When Laura had decided to move to Los Angeles for grad school, her parents were mystified, then concerned, and then irritated. Born and raised in New York, neither had ventured far outside of the state, though both traveled abroad every year for fieldwork. Her mom was a professor in the psych department, specializing in pigeons. Not that pigeons need a lot of therapy— they’re actually very self-actualized—but they are excellent subjects for behaviorists to study and tend to be easily obtained and generally willing to give it a go. Laura frequently wondered if her mother liked pigeons better than people, but never plucked up the nerve to ask.

“Yes,” lied Laura, “pretty close. Anyway, I’m not alone, so that’s good.”

“Yes,” said her mom in her teacher voice, “solitude isn’t good for social organisms.”

“We’re flock animals,” said Laura, patiently anticipating her mother’s next point.

“We’re flock animals,” said her mother, rolling over her. “We need the company of our own kind, particularly members of our immediate family grouping.” She hesitated. “Who is this friend, anyway? You don’t have any friends in Los Angeles.”

Ouch. “Her name is Polly. I met her in a bookstore.” Laura changed the subject. “How’s Dad?”

“Fine, I think.” Her mother’s voice went in and out slightly, and Laura could imagine her looking around vaguely in case her husband was lurking nearby. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”