Vera understood—at least, as much as anyone could understand. His mother was infected. No, afflicted.

Max popped to his feet, pacing alongside a coffee table blotted with water stains, and glanced at the clock on the cable box. Vera said she’d come at midnight, which was when the late-night wanderings and ramblings with Mom seemed to occur. Vera was sneaking out. It was now three minutes after twelve.

What if she decided he wasn’t worth it?

Christ, I am waiting in my house, in the middle of the night, for Vera Martinez to tell me if my mother is possessed by demons. FML…

He reached for the remote, thinking he’d put on music, the TV, anything to fill the too-silent hum of the house, but he dropped it before touching On. His sister still believed their mother was sick (and possibly a genie who could grant wishes). He didn’t want to wake her and shatter her with visions of rolled-back eyes.

Max hung his head, smelling the dried sweat on his skin. He’d run three miles after he left the restaurant, needing to let his legs loose and feel the drum of his feet on the pavement. He thought it would clear his head. It didn’t, but he should have showered.

Now I’m rude, smelly, and possibly delusional.

Headlights beamed from the street, and his gaze shot toward the bay window as decrepit brakes squeaked outside. A white car pulled alongside the curb, its lights flicking off.

He exhaled all the way from his belly. She’s here.

He watched as Vera climbed out of her car and slammed the door (which required some effort). As soon as she marched across the grass that he should have mowed last week, his heartbeat picked up. It was happening.

He opened the door before she could knock.

“Hey,” he said. She might as well have been wearing a superhero cape (black, to match her outfit).

“Hey,” she replied, tone flat and face annoyed.

Okay, fine, he deserved that.

“Come in.” He held open the door.

She was wearing a black cotton tank dress, and her fair skin glowed almost lavender in the moonlight. She tucked her wavy hair behind her ear, and he felt an odd desire to hug hello.

What is wrong with me?

She stepped inside, looking everywhere at once—at family photos, trinkets, vases. Then she rested her bag on the ground.

“How is she?” Her voice was all business.

“Right now? Quiet.” He gestured for Vera to sit, and she plopped onto the khaki sofa, which sank too low from years of overuse.

Max rested on the arm of a rosy wingback chair. “Thanks for coming. Really, I mean it. I wasn’t sure you’d show.”

“Why? I said I would.” She tilted her head, lips pursed.

Oh, that’s right. I’m the asshole here, not you.

“Well, I mean, today…” He bit his thumbnail. “My friends, they don’t know what’s going on…with my mom. I don’t think they’d understand.”

“People rarely do.”