Helen biked under a dark and dense thicket of treetops—oaks, poplars, and birches that had stood for as long as she could remember. After passing the embankment, she left the paved road and joined a narrow, sandy path that led downhill through shrubs and parkland. Many local bikers used this track instead of the main road. It led onto a dead-end street; on the left were full-grown hazels and hawthorns, and opposite them, two large houses. One was the sleek white villa belonging to Otto and Frank, and the other was Wildenbergh, the name immortalized in a mosaic on the façade.

Helen wheeled her bike up the driveway and pushed open the tall wooden gate between the house and the garage.

She parked her bike by the deck. Thom’s and Emma’s were already there, Emma’s schoolbag hanging from the rack by her handlebars. Helen sighed as she picked it up and walked through the back door into the house.

Thom hadn’t done much better with his bag—it was lying on the floor in the utility room. A little farther on lay Emma’s coat, three and a half pairs of shoes, an energy drink bottle, and a lunch box. The TV in the kitchen was playing Comedy Central, interspersed with the tinny sound of music from a smartphone.

Helen raised her voice. “Hello? Are you going to clean up your things?”

No response.

She hung up her coat and entered the kitchen. “It’s not very nice to come home and find it looking like this, guys.” She made a show of placing Emma’s schoolbag on the dining table. “This was still on your bike.”

Emma glanced up from her laptop. She was wearing black eyeliner. “Did anybody die at the hospital today?”

“I expect so, but not in my department.”

Emma looked back at her screen. She had begun using makeup when she started junior high, but she wasn’t very proficient. There were clumps of mascara on her eyelashes and dark smudges under her eyes.

Helen wanted to mention it but bit her tongue in time. Living in a house full of teenagers was like walking through a minefield. “Where’s Thom?”

Emma shrugged.

“Don’t you have any homework?”

“Just an exam on Monday.” Emma divided her attention between her laptop and her cell phone. Her thumb glided across the cracked screen.

Thom walked into the kitchen. “Hey, Mom,” he said, and wrapped his arms around her.

Helen kissed the top of his head and tousled his soft, reddish curls. Her friends’ sons had all grown distant overnight, but Thom had remained his old cuddly self, even though he was already fifteen and shaving twice a week.

“Sara stole my charger,” said Thom.

“Borrowed,” Helen corrected him.

Thom let her go. “If I don’t ask for it, I won’t get it back. That’s called stealing. And now she’s probably at Jackie’s place again, right?”