“Anyone can buy a sneaker and wait for the delivery guy! But look at this! This—this is like a shrine to the New York scene.” He takes out his phone and snaps a photo.

Who knew it would be this easy to impress Ming?

“You’re very strange,” I grumble, crashing back into my unmade bed headfirst. “Don’t tag me.”

Even without looking, I can hear the eye roll in his “Duh.”

Not that I actually fear Ming would caption a photo “Henri Halti’s decrepit living space” for the world to see at this point. Even Corinne had only ever briefly glimpsed my room despite inquiring a few times. Ming being here doesn’t feel that strange, but he’d have to be blind to pretend not to see the difference between this place and most FATE kids’ places. Still, there’s no condescension to his voice. He’s not pitying us or overcompensating in any way.

After an impromptu photoshoot that tallies at thirty-eight photos, by the sound of his phone’s shutter sound, I can feel Ming settle on my desk chair and look my way, waiting for me to say something. It’s barely morning, and I’m already so tired. Or maybe still so tired. It’s hard to keep track. We’re quiet for a while longer, and I hear him flip through a magazine.

“It was a bad day, Ming.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

I wait, but there’s no follow-up.

“You’re not going to give me grief? No that-was-so-dumb rant?”

“I could, I guess, but it feels like you’ve gotten enough. Can I ask, though?” He flips through an open sketchbook I filled back in the sixth grade. “What’s the real reason you never invited me up here?” he asks. “I was legitimately expecting to find like three babies eating a goat.”

It’s a terrifying thing, this mix of concern and gruesomely dark imagery that Ming can manage in the same breath. I sigh and sit up in the bed, knocking Chantale Troy’s letter aside.

“Well?”

I might as well take a few hairs while ripping off the Band-Aid.

I tell Ming about Daniel Halkias, and he listens quietly.

“So that’s when this Church and State thing happened?” Ming asks, sounding every bit like a career therapist who runs a practice out of his brownstone.

“It made things simpler,” I say, picking at a nail.

I do miss simple. Simple was fun.

“Well, to me, your BFF Daniel sounds like a big old cup of smegma who definitely didn’t deserve your mom’s desserts.”

“Also an acceptable diagnosis.” I smile.

“And by the way,” Ming continues, sounding huffy all of a sudden, “I had friends before you too, y’know. Very cool ones. Taller and better-looking ones, even.”

“Uh, okay. . . .”

“I’m just saying. I just don’t rub them in your face because that would be gauche.”