The breeze from the window moves Kandi’s letter across the bed. The wind nudges a ball of brown wool. Blake looks down at it. I clench my fists behind my back and force my face to stay neutral.

“You done?” I say. “Because you’re not supposed to be in here, right?”

Blake glances down at Kandi’s letter. I’m proud of myself. I don’t even twitch, but behind my back I’m squeezing my thumbs into porridge.  Blake lets Charity’s letter flutter from his hand. Then he reaches down and prods my knitting.

“What’s this?” Blake asks.

“Leave it alone, Blake,” I say.

“I’m only asking. Mum says I should get to know you properly. She says you’re really lovely under the bravado.”

I blush. Lucky, with my skin colour he doesn’t know. It’s not embarrassment, just crossness. What sort of conversations does Annie have with her son about me when I’m not there?

Blake pokes a ball of wool. His fingernail catches and a tiny thread pulls loose. I swallow hard, imagining my anger pressed flat in my throat.

“Mum says you’re brilliant at knitting,” Blake says. “She reckons you can make anything.”

I force out a smile. I even manage to hold it when Blake picks up Kandi’s blanket. He’s careful, making sure the needles don’t slip out. He squints at it.

“This a T-rex?” He sounds impressed.

I nod.

“Who’s it for?” Blake asks.

I could lie, but I just want the questions to be over. I want Blake to put down my knitting and leave the room. Then I’ll close the door and sit with my back against it and not move again until Annie’s home.

“My sister,” I say.

“I heard you’re not allowed to see her.”

Annie had no right to tell Blake that! Man, she’s letting my trust leak right through her.

I say, “That’s none of your business neither.”

Blake shrugs and says, “I suppose not.” He holds my knitting up close to his face. His breath’s twisting through the wool. “But this is good.”

“I know.”

That’s not the proper way to accept a compliment. I know that. You’re supposed to smile politely. You’re supposed to say thank you politely. You’re supposed to change the conversation or pretend you’re not really that good. Why? Seriously, why? I am a damn good knitter and I’m not gonna pretend otherwise.

Blake says, “Do you take commissions?”

He’s still holding my knitting. His talk sounds friendly, but I can see how he’s watching me.

“What?” I say.

“Commissions.” Blake lays the knitting down and for a second I can breathe. Then he grabs a needle in each hand and holds them wide apart, stretching the blanket tight between them. It doesn’t look like a dinosaur any more, just patches of colour.