The sudden time pressure exacerbates my nerves over doing the test in the first place. I write back: That’s great! But fyi, Sam is here. We were doing something together this morning. But it won’t take long.

She writes: Sam is over? Don’t kick her out on our account — we’d like to meet her. Would she maybe want to stay for lunch?

I glance at Sam, who is busying herself looking at the books on my shelf. I write to my mom, Do you think it’s okay if she’s here right when Jonah gets home? It won’t be confusing? As soon as I send it, I remember what Mom said about changing things up, not letting Jonah get too attached to routines.

She writes: He’ll be fine. You know him — he’ll mostly care about seeing you and about eating. What do you think? You said Sam is good about Jonah.

“Hey, Sam,” I say. “Do you maybe want to stay for lunch?”

She stares at me like I have just spoken an ancient language, or perhaps asked her if she would like a herd of wildebeests for Christmas. “I don’t want to impose on your family time,” she finally says.

“You wouldn’t be. My parents would like to meet you,” I say. “And then you could meet Jonah.”

She hesitates only a moment before she gives me a small smile. “I’d like that.”

I type to my mom: She can stay! See you soon.

“Okay, let’s get our errand done!” I say, jumping up and grabbing my things. I spot Sam’s bird poster on my bookshelf. “Hey, would you like to give Jonah your poster?” I step over and pick it up. “It would be nice if he understood it was from you.” I hold it out to her. “You don’t have to, if you’d feel uncomfortable. I just thought maybe —”

“I’d love to,” she says. She takes it from me and gazes at it. “I hope he likes it.” She sets it on top of her messenger bag.

“Ha,” I say. “You’ll see how much he likes it.”

We head downstairs, but as we’re leaving, her brow furrows, as if she’s thought of something.

“What is it?” I ask.

She chews her lip for a moment. “It’s just that your hair is still wet. Won’t you be cold?”

I smile and touch her arm. “I’ll be fine. Don’t be such a worrywart.” And then I want to kick myself, because what if my calling her a worrywart reminds her of her mom and sparks her concerns about having OCD?

But she nods with a smile as we climb into her mom’s car.