Sam nods, glancing out with me, and I see his fingers drum a silent little pattern on the sill. His face still gives nothing away. Then in the silence his stomach rumbles, and for the first time there’s a break in that careful neutrality and I witness his look of embarrassment.

I clear my throat.

“So we should think about dinner, shouldn’t we? Do you like pasta?”

“Sure,” he says, with about as much commitment as if I’d asked about dog food.

“Okay, great,” I say. “So you can unpack, or—or do whatever you like. I’ll call you when we’re ready to eat, okay?”

Downstairs, Oliver’s sitting at the kitchen table with a freshly cracked beer. It wouldn’t have killed him to think about dinner, would it?

I go to the fridge and start looking for things to put in a salad. We’re a bit slack about the five-a-day thing when it’s just the two of us, but I feel a sense of responsibility now with Sam in the house. I find some tomatoes that still look relatively firm, and turn on the tap.

“He’s just so silent, Oliver. Do you think it’s all because of Abigail, or is it his age?”

Oliver looks at me over his beer, and offers the same exasperating kind of shrug that Sam did a minute ago.

“Both?”

I get out a knife and chopping board, trying not to sound irritated.

“Well, either way, maybe you could help me out a little. Talk to him, you know, get him out of his shell, instead of leaving me to prattle on.”

Oliver frowns.

“What if he doesn’t want to be taken out of his shell, Gillian? Do you remember that age? Shells could be nice, comfortable places.”

“Oh come on, Oliver. Just help me out a bit here.”

He sighs, puts his beer back in the fridge, and comes over to help with the vegetables—which isn’t exactly what I meant, but I’ll take it. I push the onions his way, and soon we’re chopping in silence.

Mom suggested coming over tonight—she’s eager to see Sam, obviously—but I asked her to hold off until tomorrow. Now I’m glad I did. I think it might all be a little tense, adding her to the mix right now.

When the pasta’s almost done, Oliver starts setting the table and I go up to call Sam.

“Ready to eat?” I knock. His door’s ajar. Inside I can see he’s just sitting on his bed, doing nothing, seemingly staring out the window. My voice seems to startle him.

He follows me downstairs.

“Can I wash up?”

I point him towards the downstairs bathroom, then join Oliver in the kitchen. I look at our table set for three. Two adults and a child—but someone else’s child.