“I’m not making this up.”

“Sure you aren’t. And there really was a man who lived here once who didn’t look like anything, and an old woman with Xs for eyes.” She laughs, but it is a mean sound. “Come on, Sam. You scared yourself because you let your imagination wander away from you, and, well, nobody could blame you, could they? Not in this place. But you have to get a handle on what’s real and what isn’t. When you mix those up, you hurt people.” The words etch a scowl on her face.

“If you open your eyes, you’ll see him too,” I tell her, ignoring her comments on my childhood ghosts. “Just wait.”

I want so desperately for her to believe me that I wait as interminable seconds tick by, waiting foolishly, hopelessly, for the boy to show himself, and every second that he doesn’t I feel my credibility shatter a bit more. But I wait, anxious and eager, because I cannot stand any more of Elizabeth’s condescension. She must, she must believe me. The air crackles expectantly. A minute drags into eternity. The television drones in the background, bothersome and insistent, until Elizabeth snaps up the remote and douses us in an abrupt dark and quiet.

“Are you finished?” she says coldly.

“Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

“Why would I listen to bullshit?” Her voice is harsh and low; I hear the slosh of wine in her glass. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I fumble my way to the light, trailing broken sentences behind me as I go. “I do. Jesus, Liz. I’m trying to help you. So you can … I don’t know … do something.”

“Like what?” she snarls. “Get an abortion?”

I pause beside the lamp. “Well, it’s a bit late for that.”

“You’re still angry with me,” she says. “For kicking you out of my house. That’s what this is about.”

“I’m not angry about that,” I tell her, which is the truth.

I turn the switch and a harsh light pierces the air, glaring on every surface and illuminating Elizabeth’s furious face in a cold white. Her pupils hastily retract into glossy irises. Red wine drips over the lip of her glass and onto her hand.

“You attacked my husband. What else was I supposed to do?”

“I told you, I’m not angry about that,” I insist.

“Then what?”

“I’m not angry about anything.”

“Oh, don’t lie.”

I shred a piece of lint in my pocket until it disintegrates in my fingers. “How could I be angry with you? You only left me there.” The words stumble free, cottony in my mouth. “You only left me out there alone, to get mugged—to be pushed to the sidewalk with a gun to my head, thinking I was going to die.”

“How on earth was I supposed to know that was going to happen?” she replies, her voice rising indignantly. “You can’t blame me for not predicting the future.”