Lance is watching Robbie study the room with visible uneasiness. Robbie recalls a dozen brief exchanges they’ve had before—Robbie suggesting something might be wrong at home, Lance hurrying to assure him that everything is fine. Robbie feels like he’s walking on the very thinnest ice when he looks at Lance and smiles. “You seem like you’re better. Want to come to the party?”

The painfully thin shoulders go round with relieved tension as Lance exhales, and his grin, despite the stark paleness and gauntness of his face, is still sweet. “Yeah. Just let me change, okay?” He wets his dry lips and his smile turns strained. “And grab a drink of water.”

Reluctant to leave him, Robbie nonetheless goes outside and sits on the front step. His head feels heavy suddenly; he can’t help briefly resting it in his hands. When he hears Lance coming, though, he quickly stands up, smiles at him, and follows him back to the car.

When they get in, Robbie starts up the driveway before he dares to ask. He’s pretty sure Lance won’t jump out of a moving vehicle to escape this conversation, but he’s not absolutely sure.

“So,” he says as casually as possible, “I saw you’ve got a broken window. That happened at the house last winter. I still have some left-over caulk and window glass, if you want help fixing it. I could show you how.”

Lance glances at him. “Sure, maybe.”

“Lance.” Robbie doesn’t know how to ask, but indirect questions apparently aren’t going to get him anywhere. He swallows. “Are you afraid of your dad?”

Lance goes utterly still.

Robbie, acting on pure instinct, lays his hand on his shoulder. For a moment, Lance’s tension seems to double, tangible against Robbie’s palm, and then it leaves him in a rush. Robbie gives him a gentle rub, like he would an uneasy animal, or Danny when he’s crying. He doesn’t usually offer Lance comfort; Lance doesn’t seek it, not like the other boys do. Not from him. And Megan’s warnings are ringing in his ears, but he thinks that in this moment, she’d understand why he can’t help himself.

“You can tell me. I promise I won’t do anything about it that you don’t want me to.” He regrets the words as soon as he says them, but at the same time, they seem to do the trick.

Lance swallows, and then answers slowly, each word sounding pried loose from his chest and flung past his mouth. “Sometimes I take things. Just little things.” He wrings his hands in his lap between his spread thighs. “Dad doesn’t like it.”

Robbie swallows. “When he gets mad, you go in your room?” That was a very generous description of what Robbie guesses happened—Lance barricading himself in for three days—but he’s still straining not to spook Lance so badly that this unprecedented moment of honesty will vanish.

Lance nods, like he’s relieved Robbie figured it out so that he won’t have to say it. Taking that cue, Robbie goes on, carefully choosing each word.