“Huh. Have you ever been to one of Sylvie’s shows?”

“Look,” Dad says. “Bottom line? What Sylvie does now? We don’t understand it. We don’t want to understand it or watch in person.”

“She was raised Catholic,” Mom adds like I’m not even in the room. “The first commandment, ‘I am the Lord thy God. Thou shalt have no other gods before me.’ You went to Sunday school, church, Bible camp.”

I snort. “It’s not like I’m a witch or worship the devil!”

Mom slams the glass bowl she just washed onto the counter. I’m surprised it doesn’t break, shocked that she’s actually showing emotion. She whirls, then demands, “I have a question. Did you throw away your morality all at once, or was it like the frog in the pot?”

“The frog?” Thomas asks.

“Place a frog in a pot of water, slowly turn up the heat,” Mom says, “the frog won’t feel it, realize he should hop out until it’s too late and he’s been cooked.”

“I’m the frog,” I tell Thomas. “If we’re sharing Sunday school stories, how about the one where the frog falls into a bucket of milk.”

Thomas says, “He drowns?” then looks to Hana like he’s at a tennis match, waiting for her to return serve.

“Nope,” I correct while making a swan out of my cloth napkin. “He keeps swimming, never gives up, until the milk is churned by his little froggy legs into butter, and he gets the hell out of the bucket and never comes back.” I set the swan on the table. The napkin hasn’t been starched so the bird’s proud neck droops. Mom has turned her back again. Methodically she dries the wok.

“Religion aside, do you believe at all in Sylvie’s abilities?” Thomas asks my parents.

I admire his persistence. Maybe he’s trying to get us kicked out. That’s never happened before, not even after Mom discovered I was on the pill, but this is a night of firsts.

“No,” Dad says. “We do not believe that Sylvie has some sort of gift that allows her to know the future or talk to dead people. We don’t hang our hats on nonsense.”

So far I’ve batted away each paper tiger my parents have sent to attack, but Dad’s tone of disgust is too much. I’m an intricately folded piece of origami scrunched into a tiny ball, tossed away. The heat in my belly flares.

“We done?” Dad asks. “There’s a game on TV.”

“Just a few more questions,” Thomas says. “What can you tell me about Sylvie’s birth parents and her time in foster care?”

Mom turns, looks at Dad, not Thomas. Her hand drifts to her neck. “I told you,” she says. “We don’t know anything.”

Dad adds, “It didn’t matter. Once Sylvie arrived, she was ours.”

Thomas withdraws a letter from his back pocket. His name is typed in the center of the envelope. The return name and address printed in the top-left corner is for the National Transportation Safety Board. I move behind Dad as he withdraws the sheet of paper inside and we both silently read it.