I knock. No answer. I look at my feet and rub some dust off my ankle with my opposite instep. I lift my fist to knock again but think better of it. Instead, I move my face to press my ear against the door. As it makes contact with the paint, sticky in the rising summer heat, the door swings open and I stumble into Nick’s big, furry chest, which is blotchy pink and peeling in places where he’s sunburned. Somehow I manage not to drop the pie.

I straighten and wait for him to say something but he just stands his ground and lifts his chin to its highest point, expecting me to speak first. My tongue fills my mouth and won’t coordinate with my thoughts.

“Yes?” he says finally, brows lifted, mouth pursed.

My mouth just hangs open. I think I’m trying to smile. I’m sure I look ridiculous.

I hold up the pie. “I made this but I can’t finish it on my own, so I thought you might like half?”

“Leftovers!” He makes his voice high in sharp mock excitement. “How nice of you to offer, but I don’t eat junk food. You understand.”

I look away from the glare of his blue eyes as the sticky door slams in my face; I understand perfectly. It was stupid of me to come here. Peace offerings are pointless coming from the side that’s already lost. Why can’t he see that I just need a little more time? I’m not old enough to be here, sure. Not by a long shot. But I’m not trying to ruin their retirement paradise; I’m waiting for my folks. Trying to be good and quiet and patient. Still, everything I do just seems to make things worse.

I’ll bring the rest of the pie to Rose. She’ll be happy to have it, maybe even proud of me for how well the crust came out. Might even give me a hug or something, if no one else is in her shop.

Nick’s the worst of the really hard-core separatists. Some of the Wrinklies make a show of ignoring me or take exaggerated swerves to avoid me. What’s worse than that, worse than the shitty little digs Nick will lob at me every chance he gets, are the ones who tolerate me, like they deserve the Nobel fucking Peace Prize for exercising the self-control it takes not to shit on a kid who’s probably an orphan for all they know. Nick’s the most aggressive for sure. Before he ever even spoke to me directly I overheard him in the chapel talking to Mrs. Tyburn about me: