There’s a photograph of the two of us. Taken when we were ten. It’s on the table by my bed. Two frowning kids, fully clothed, in a bathtub. Look at it and you’ll think you’re seeing a pair of miserable refugees. You can’t see the adventure Solomon was taking us on, narrating a whole complicated, amazing story where we were infiltrating an evil kingdom, and defeating their army of ghosts. You can’t see that this is the happiest we’ll ever be. All of that is unphotographable.

Going back in, I closed the door behind me as quietly as I could. Mom was using her soothing voice on Dad, which, like always, was having no effect.

“You can’t be mad at that poor boy for what his mother did,” she said.

“George is a friend of mine,” Dad argued. George, aka Mr. Barrett; Solomon’s stepfather and Connor’s father. “He’s a good man. And the awful things that woman did . . .”

He trailed off when he saw me.

“What did she do?” I asked, stepping into the kitchen.

Mom turned toward me, deer-in-headlights style. Dad turned away. “Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing you need to worry about.”

“What did Solomon’s mother do to Connor’s dad?” I asked.

“You’re too young to know the details,” Dad said, his voice firm in that way that meant he would not be changing his mind.

“Anyway, what does it matter what she did? It has nothing to do with Solomon. What do you have against him?” I asked. “He’s not my boyfriend. And I mean, you know he’s gay, right?”

“Solomon is confused,” Dad said. “And he’s sick. Who’s to say what he is?”

I groaned. “He’s my best friend. You can’t seriously believe he would hurt me.”

“I’m not saying he would hurt you on purpose.”

“This isn’t Of Mice and Men, Dad,” I said.

“Ash, he’s delusional. And he has persecution fantasies. So who’s to say he won’t suddenly decide that you’re the one persecuting him, and do something terrible to you?”

I stared at him, the silence stretching between us. “What makes you say that?” I asked.

“I’m eating dinner in my office,” he said, taking his plate and going.

I skipped dinner altogether. Instead, I paced back and forth in my room. I read old interviews with Diane Arbus, on the internet. I did laundry.

I did not wash Solomon’s T-shirt. I put it in a pillowcase under my bed. It smelled bad, but it smelled like him.

Ms. Jackson was still playing in my room. Her cigarette-scratchy voice sounded ancient, impossibly wise.

“Temperature’s dropping tonight, beloveds,” she said. “Better find a good book or a warm body to curl up with by the fire.”