The door opens. But it’s not Ned. It’s Peter, Mike’s son, a year older than her and Ned. He’s dressed as per normal for him: a hoodie with some obscure computer symbol on it, faded khakis, high-top sneakers. Dark blond curling hair, a frown. His eyes are red-rimmed, and she realizes he’s been crying. She has been worried about Ned and Mike but not Peter. Peter’s just sort of…there. Sometimes she’s felt the weight of his gaze on her and she thinks: If Peter could be a little more social, dress a little nicer, find some topics of conversation beyond computers, he’d have a chance with a girl. He could be, she has thought, an interesting project. Not for her, but for a friend.

“Hi, Peter,” she says evenly. “How are you?”

“I’m all right,” he says. He moved down from Canada with his father; there had been whispers about school problems, which was why he’d had to stay an extra year. “I’m sorry for what you went through this morning,” he says. Not looking at her.

“Thanks. Is Ned here?”

“Yes. Sure. Come on in.” He mumbles a lot, and she has to strain to hear his words.

She steps inside, and Peter Horvath closes the door behind her. He doesn’t yell or announce her name but gestures at her to stay put and leaves. Then Ned comes into the mudroom, and she folds her arms around him, like a simple embrace could make it better, but it is all she can do. He isn’t crying now, but she feels the tremble on his jaw, of his body. She tries to imagine if it had been her mom killed, and the image won’t even come. The idea is like something shielded in darkness, not visible, beyond her thoughts. Her fingers go into his dark hair, stroking his scalp gently, and he gives a little sigh. For a moment she wonders if she should kiss him; she has wanted to for a long while. But not today. Not so close to this awfulness. She doesn’t want them linked in his mind. But then she thinks: I’ll always be the girl who found his dead mom with him. What does that mean for us? Then she shoves the thought away.

“Mike is upstairs,” he whispers. “Peter won’t tell.”

“Am I not supposed to be here?” Their faces are very close together.

“He wants to grieve in private,” Ned says. “He’s falling apart. People were over here earlier to see us, just neighbors, and Mike lost it. I think he just needs time alone.”

“Oh. Of course. I just wanted to see if you’re…” What, all right? He wasn’t. He wasn’t OK or all right or keeping it together. “I just wanted to see you,” she amends quickly.