Ken, who was occupying one of the armchairs in front of the fire, said “Hi” and Fitz murmured a greeting, but Lori said nothing.

A moment ticked by, the only sound the hiss of the fire. She picked up a section of the newspaper and scanned the headlines, only to set it back down again, the news of the outside world—a volcanic eruption in the North Atlantic, Malcolm X’s speech, a train disaster in Japan and a coup in Vietnam—as remote and meaningless as if she really were on a spaceship floating in the void. But this was a private spaceship, wasn’t it? She’d thought so. Except that now she had to adjust to the Nestlings and Hollingshead—and on top of it she had to see this girl slumped there on the couch as if this were her own house, as if she belonged, as if the inner circle were open to just anybody now no matter their age or experience. “So, Lori,” she said, after the silence had simmered a moment, “how are you?”

The girl—unbrushed hair, chewed nails, skin as white and featureless as a sheet of Fitz’s Corrasable Bond—just gave her a look and shrugged.

“I was just wondering how school was going?”

“Fine.”

Fitz looked up, smoothed out a wrinkle in the newspaper and said, “Have we got any coffee left? I could really use a cup of coffee—anybody else? Joanie? Ken? Lori?”

No one answered him, so he pushed himself up and went off in the direction of the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to say, “Last chance,” before Lori murmured, “No thanks,” and he was gone.

“Because,” Joanie said, taking up the conversation where she’d left off, “it’s really none of my business, I guess, but shouldn’t you be in class?”

Another shrug. Lori’s feet were bare, her nail polish chipped and dull.

“And your dorm,” she went on, “what about your dorm—and your roommates? Aren’t they missing you, because it’s been over a week now, or more—?”

“Susannah said I could stay as long as I want”—that little squeak of a voice, as if there were a bicycle pump inside her. “And Tim. And Fitz too. Is there a problem with that? Ken?”

Ken turned his head to look over his shoulder, his hair struck gold in the sun through the windows.

“Ken,” Lori repeated, holding the book open in one hand and stroking the ears of the cat with the other, “do you have a problem with me being here?”

“No,” he said, “no, not at all. You’re—nice. A nice person. And it’s nice to see such a beautiful smile around here, right, Joanie?”