It wasn’t until Bill’s father died that they began to warm to him, at last noticing how many times he continued to call, how courteous he was to her parents despite their lack of encouragement, how many times he brought her flowers even when she was out on her imaginary dates with the football team captain, how many times he refused to give up—not to mention noticing that he had no intention of sponging on them, that he had found himself a job, that he was going to college at night, and, more than anything else, that he was now a genuine orphan with no one left to love him in the world, except, of course, for Anna. It is true, Bill Landsmann thought to himself, that you really do remain a child until your parents die. Only then do you suddenly find yourself with recourse to nothing but the most painfully voluntary love.

But the time Anna first read his mind had nothing to do with his thoughts on her parents, which anyone could probably have inferred and which therefore wouldn’t have been much evidence of telepathic powers. They were on their deliciously slow walk home, and she was laughing about how her parents acted like prison wardens, letting her out for exercise now and then but always trying to keep her in sight, under lock and key.

“I wish my father were more like a prison warden,” Bill said. He had meant it as a joke, sort of, or a lighthearted comment at least. But like many things he said in English when he was almost seventeen, it didn’t come out quite the way he wanted—and he felt himself separated from her by a veil of misunderstanding, one that prevented him from knowing how what he had said had sounded to her ears.

She laughed, and he could hear that it was a pitying laugh. But he loved her so much then—yes, already, then—that it would have been completely beyond him to fault her for it. Instead he felt a familiar feeling growing within his stomach, a sick nausea that reminded him of being a twelve-year-old boy and listening to some unknown woman groaning inside his father’s room.

“You hate your father, don’t you,” Anna suddenly said.

He was so stunned that he stopped walking. She didn’t stop walking, and he stared at her back until her hand, clutched in his, pulled her around to face him. “What?” he stuttered, wishing he could find the words to express his amazement. It was eerie, having someone read your mind, particularly when that someone was beautiful and you were desperately in love with her.

“I said you hate your father, and I don’t think it’s right.”