“Maybe just a few more stops on the way back home?” I offered, and this seemed to please Zeke.

“We can just use the rest of the copies,” he said. He took one of the posters and folded it up, again and again, until it was a tiny square. He had to hold it closed with his fingers or it would open up again, expose itself. I wanted to eat it, but I didn’t. I let him hold it in his hand, and then we walked out of the house. The sun was still in the sky, and it hurt my eyes. It made me want to hiss at it. We got into my car and Zeke held the map open, guiding us into so much territory left to chart.

THE NEXT MORNING, I AWAKENED FROM A DREAM WHERE THOSE giant hands from the poster, the ones Zeke had drawn, kept reaching out for me, the fingers wiggling like they were casting a spell of bad intentions over me. I moaned and groaned all the way into the kitchen, where my mom was eating yogurt at the counter, humming along to Tracy Chapman’s “Give Me One Reason” and, like, really putting her hips into it. My brothers were inhaling Cookie Crisp in the living room, watching VHS tapes of an old SummerSlam pay-per-view on mute. I unwrapped my first Pop-Tart of the day, let the sugar seep into my gums, wake me up, my teeth aching.

I tried to imagine my dad back in this house with us, the summer sun so bright through the windows, the house just a little too hot because we were trying to save money on the A/C. But even though he’d only been gone for two years, I had trouble picturing him. Or maybe I tried not to. Because if I imagined him sitting in the easy chair in the living room the way he used to, I had to imagine his new wife, maybe making pancakes in the kitchen. And I had to imagine that other Frances, sucking on some melba toast, her disconcerting little baby fingers. It was strange, how his absence meant that I had to work hard to keep him out of my mind or else he took up too much space. I preferred to think that my dad was dead and his inheritance was coming to us in monthly installments, just enough to clothe and feed us.

I tried to imagine Zeke in the house, too, but he didn’t make sense unless everyone else was gone. I could only picture him alone, on the couch, asking me to sit next to him. I finished my Pop-Tart, immediately wanted the second, but decided to save it for later. My mom looked up at me and smiled. “You look different,” she said.

“I haven’t combed my hair or anything,” I said, feeling embarrassed.

“No,” she said. “You just look happy.”

“Oh, okay.”