Most of his schoolbooks are piled on the bed. The guilt surges up through my chest. He’s a good kid. It’s not my place to do what I’m about to do.

I lift his pillow. Nothing. Kneel by the bed, lift the tails of the comforter, which is already in disarray. Covering my tracks will not be a problem.

How many socks does this child own? And how can they all be dirty? They are knotted like fists and they multiply when I touch them.

The never-ending laundry is concealing a stack of thin gray binders. They are so chock full of page protectors that they are widened like shark jaws. It looks scholarly and illicit. The one on top is full of Polaroids of graffiti art and murals, neatly organized in photo-protector slots. The older ones have regular photos, index card sketches, and random slips of paper poking out.

I gave him the Polaroid camera for Christmas. I thought he’d find it fun, and he seemed to really love it. Now I can see that he really does. He’s taken dozens of photos. The album is almost full.

The art is striking.

I know Will admires street art. He comments on it all the time, if we pass some. He’s got an eye for it, too. He can talk about what works and doesn’t in even a small patch of color on some bricks.

He’s much more into it than I realized, I guess. And he has a favorite artist, apparently. All of these pieces are signed with the same little squiggle: eMZee.

JENNICA

The customer bell over the door jangles at 11:58. I hope it’s not a regular. I’m not inclined to give anyone a break right now, when we’re about to close.

“Not a chance,” mutters Troy, the line cook. He’s already shut down the fryers and he’s scraping grime off the griddle. “Send them packing.”

“Yeah, got it.” The half door to the kitchen is still swinging as I push back through it.

Oh. It’s a regular, all right.

“Hey, Brick.”

“Hi, Jen.” There’s no one else left in the diner except Troy, but Brick still shortens my name. Easier that way.

“You know we close at midnight, yeah?”

Brick nods. “I came to take you home.”

Oh. He’s done this before. It’s awkward. I don’t mind that much when he comes at night, to sit at the counter and keep me company if business is slow, like earlier. It’s sweet.

Ever since Noodle and I split up, I stopped hanging with his boys. No one seems to care except for Brick, who keeps coming around. I don’t mind, it’s just awkward, because sometimes it seems like maybe he wants more from me. But he’s never so much as leaned in.