I’d never really cooked for anyone but myself before, but knowing Jasper didn’t have a working stove made me want to. Mature or not, I’d probably have grumped about it if my parents had asked me to cook dinner for them, but it didn’t feel like work, not with Jasper sitting beside me on the counter, her long legs hanging down, as she sipped a cup of coffee. I felt older, somehow. I felt like a person instead of just a kid. And so we made messy omelets that gooped onto the plate. Grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches. Tater Tots. I’d tie on my dad’s Watcha Cooking, Hot Stuff? apron that he used to wear when he grilled, and lean into the fridge, happily.

Once in a while, Jasper would ask to take a shower or to wash her laundry, but mostly, she didn’t ask for things. She left it to me to offer. Which made me want to offer her everything.

On the mornings Jasper didn’t come to my house, I walked over to hers. And those days were just as good. We’d pick the wild berries along the fence on Mercer, washing them with the farm’s hose, or we’d walk the creek, looking for pieces of colored glass smoothed down by time and water.

One day, in the creek, I heard Jasper give a loud shout, and came running to find her waving something in the air. “Look at this guy,” she said. “He’s huge!” When she stopped waving her hand, I could see she was clutching a large crawfish. He wasn’t moving, probably stunned by the wild ride Jasper had given him.

“I’m going to keep him for a pet,” she said. “His name is Fido. I’ve never had a pet before.”

She looked so proud of her find, I didn’t tell her I knew this particular crawfish already. Sam had caught him at least three times.

“I think maybe you should let him go,” I said. “He’s got to be really old, to be so big, don’t you think? It would be a shame if he died in your house. I bet he’d smell.”

Jasper pouted at me. “I know,” she said. “I was just kidding, mostly.”

I stood there, watching Jasper set him back down, and thinking about how Sam used to wave the crawfish at me, even though he knew I hated it. I’d always been so angry at him when he did things like that, pranks and tricks. But it was impossible to be angry at him now.

A few times I treated Jasper to ice cream at Morelli’s—always salted caramel for me, but Jasper ordered something different every time. Weird flavors, like rosewater or olive oil. Earl Grey or jalapeño coconut.

“Are you crazy?” I would always ask. “What if you don’t like it?”