Well. I gave him credit, at least, for not being afraid to say the difficult thing.

My camera was still around my neck. I raised it, and he smiled. The shadows danced across his face. I took the picture.

“I can’t explain it,” I said to him. “I’ve just always been suspicious of you. Like . . . I’ve always felt like you had an agenda I didn’t understand. I—I’m sorry.”

He smiled. Kindly, sadly. Looked into the fire. “Everybody has an agenda.”

“Tell me about yours.”

“Some other time,” he said.

His face looked so sad. I wanted to kiss him, but I would not let myself.

Fifteen

Ash

“My throat hurts,” Solomon said.

“Of course it does. You were screaming for what felt like forever.”

“I’m sorry, about that freak-out.”

“I know. It’s okay. We’re okay.”

We walked. It was almost all the way dark, already. Without my realizing it, we’d followed the train tracks back into town. We made our way to my house, through the twilight streets. The evening smelled like woodsmoke.

“You fell,” he said, when we got to my front door. “I remembered. That day. You fell.”

“Out of your treehouse,” I said, because suddenly I was remembering too.

“Connor’s,” he said.

“You were living there too, then.”

We waited for more to come, but none did. We went inside.

The walk had taken longer than I’d thought it would. Dad would be home soon. I couldn’t say that to Solomon, or he’d leave.

And go where? And do what? Hungry, still smelling, would he head back for that bar or the bridge he sometimes slept under? I led him upstairs. We would take our chances. If my dad had something to say, he could take it up with me.

Solomon took a long time showering. I didn’t blame him. He had always loved how hot our water got. When he came out, towel around his waist and wet hair dripping, I couldn’t help but smile. From pride. Admiration. He had become such a beautiful man.

He turned on my radio. Ms. Jackson, our favorite DJ. The Graveyard Shift: Weird Songs for Weird Wonderful People.

“One day she’s going to be playing my songs,” he said, and smiled, and I knew with complete certainty that he was right.

Then he picked up his dirty T-shirt and I snatched it out of his hand.

“You can’t put this filthy thing back on, idiot,” I said. “I’ll wash it for you.”

“What am I supposed to wear in the meantime?”

“Not that towel,” I said. “It wouldn’t be safe for you to walk down the street. Everyone would want a piece of you.”

He smiled. Blushed. I pulled a backpack out from under my bed and tossed it to him.

“These are my clothes,” he said. “Where did you get these?”