“Jerome Dunlap,” the man says. He shakes Wilson’s hand, and then Isabelle’s, and then he goes and puts a hand on the back of the boy’s neck. “And this is Thomas. We’re just moving in across the street.”

Wilson nods. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“I saw them out making a snowman as I was coming home with the wreaths,” Ruth says. “They reminded me of you two guys. Thomas is Isabelle’s age.”

Wilson glances at Isabelle. She is staring at the floor, and Wilson feels a flutter of irritation toward his wife for inviting these people over here. He wonders, if she hadn’t, how the rest of the day would have gone, whether the three of them might have sat down cheerfully to mugs of cocoa, maybe gone to see a movie in town or made Christmas cookies.

“It’s nice to meet you, Thomas,” Wilson says. The boy hasn’t left his stool, and Wilson decides against reaching for his hand all the way across the island. Instead, he gives a little salute, which Thomas returns. Like Isabelle, Thomas is quite small for his age, but unlike Isabelle, the boy looks fragile, his skin pale, almost translucent.

“He can’t hear you,” Mr. Dunlap says, “but he can read your lips. He lost his hearing to measles when he was very young.”

At this, Isabelle looks up.

“He doesn’t speak much, but he signs. That’s why we moved here, actually. They have a great school for kids who are deaf or mute. Shady Briar.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Ruth says. She clears her throat. “Isabelle doesn’t speak much, either.” It is a risky statement, and Wilson shoots his wife a look.

“That’s okay,” Mr. Dunlap says.

Isabelle looks back down at the floor, angry heat blooming through her body. Her initial anger had been that her mother had invited these new neighbors over while Isabelle was elsewhere and had no say in the matter, especially since she’d be expected to befriend the one her age—she could hear the coming suggestions: Why don’t you take Thomas outside and show him the tree? Why don’t you kids go make snow angels? When and if she wanted a playmate, she would find her own! She’d seen this coming last weekend; she does not need her mother arranging her friendships. But on top of this outrage, and worse, for her mother to humiliate her like that! Isabelle doesn’t speak much, either. The words echo through her head, magnifying her humiliation—for her mother to compare her to a deaf boy like that, as if she could be shamed into talking! Wrong, wrong, wrong; she is ashamed of herself enough already, more ashamed than anyone outside herself could ever make her feel.