“I was just gonna see if I could help with anything on your essay.” She watches my mom take another wipe from the container. “You sounded weird on the phone, and I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Oh, right, sorry.”

“How sweet,” my mom says, covering every surface of the table and leaving behind a sluglike trail of Kills 99.9 Percent of Bacteria! “Maybe the three of you could work together? You tutor as well, right, Brendan?”

“Yeah, we’ve actually made some good progress with Cham’s essay,” he says, before I can stop him. I’d like to belong to the freezer now.

“Wait, Brendan is helping you?” Abigail glares at him. “I offered so many times,” she says in the voice of a soldier suffering wounds from the war of senior year. I’m supposed to be your best friend, her eyes say. I stare back. But you and Hilary won that award.

Abigail’s face is reddening. My mom is biting her lip as she holds the wipe up, as if she could disinfect the air between us.

“We could all work on it,” Brendan offers, echoing my mom in sentiment but not in hopefulness. Abigail looks at me and I look at the lamp. “Uh, or we could take a break, since we were gonna do that anyway, and then work on it tonight in Google Docs? When’s it due?”

“Midnight,” I mumble. I look back and forth between Brendan and the door, hoping he’ll catch on. “I’ll text you. Thanks for the help.”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Mrs. Myles,” he calls, not bothering to untie his sneakers before he stuffs them back on his feet and opens the door. “See you guys later.”

Once he slams the door, it’s just me, Abigail, and my mom waiting to see who’ll talk first.

“I’ll let you two girls hang out,” my mom says quickly. She heads toward the sliding door and closes it behind her, taking one last swipe of the handle as she goes.

“What was up with that?” Abigail asks, looking behind her as if Brendan might be coming back. “Cham, what the hell is happening?”

A tear wiggles out of my emotional grasp, but how am I supposed to say anything? I cross my arms and shake my head.

“Fine,” she says. “I’m not going to beg you to let me in. I get why Gene got fed up with you being so secretive.”

She stands up and goes to the front door, but an aide comes through at the same time Abigail’s trying to get out. The aide is pushing my dad, who still looks gaunt and exhausted, but his eyes are clear and his hair is neatly combed.

“Hi, Cham,” he says, locking his wheelchair and sounding surprisingly lucid. “Who’s your friend?”

Abigail steps toward him quickly. “I’m Abigail,” she says, smiling as she extends her hand. “Are you Cham’s grandfather?”

My dad cracks a smile. “No, just her old man.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Abigail stutters.