Thomas says nothing, but he does send an apologetic look Reid’s way, and with that, it’s over, this obviously recurring flare in their family. Nobody seems particularly bothered; nobody tries to leave the room or pick another fight. Nothing essential between them—their trust in each other, their love for each other—seems shaken, and I clutch this observation to myself, something else Reid and his family have given me today. Some knowledge, some hope that eventually, Sibby and I will be able to talk about this difficult thing between us again, and that it won’t spell the end of us, the end of our friendship, the end of our chosen family.

I blink down at the photo album, collecting myself. Maybe my companions notice, but no one seems to mind. Cady simply turns the page, and Cynthia starts telling me about the next picture, and just like that, I somehow get the sense I’m now one of their number.

“So, this is your bedroom.”

“This is my old bedroom,” Reid says.

We’re in the finished basement of the Sutherland house, a massive but low-ceilinged space that’s partitioned off into a laundry room, a storage closet, a half bathroom, and this larger space. It’s clear that it’s been transformed since Reid’s childhood years, now the kind of neutral guest room that seems cobbled together from old furniture and decor.

“It used to be two sets of bunk beds,” he says. “A desk over there.” He points to the far wall, where there’s a simple dresser set beneath the one source of natural light in here, a narrow rectangle of glass block that’s now, this late at night, mostly a black ripple, twinkles of light from the dim bedside lamp like stars dotting its uneven surface.

“Cozy,” I say, crossing to sit on the bed, propping myself on my palms as I gently push my way to the middle of it. I lean back on my hands, my feet crossed at the ankles, and study Reid, who’s still leaning in the doorway.

“You’re okay,” he says, “that we’re staying?”