“Anything’s possible!” I say, wanting to seem enthusiastic and confident. This morning we did something that could alter the entire course of her life. I don’t know what to say to reassure her. Her knees are so close to mine, it would be easy to reach out and lay a comforting hand on one, but I don’t have the ease of touching that she does. Just thinking about doing it makes me break into a sweat. Instead, I pick up a stuffed chipmunk and run a finger over its soft head.

My greatest hope is that whatever comes of this will disprove Zoe’s Theory of Original Defectiveness. If she finds out why she was given up — if it was because the situation was impossible and not because they didn’t want her, just like the story I told her in Starworld — then maybe that hole in her heart can begin to mend.

We talk quietly as the sunlight climbs over the house and the smell of cheese and meat wafts from the kitchen. Finally, I hear the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, and Zoe jumps up. “They’re here! Grab the birds!”

I pick up the drawing I did for Jonah and follow her as she runs down the stairs. My heart pounds as my nerves engage in some kind of biological warfare. Will he like the art? Will he like me? Can I fake being a normal person long enough to impress Zoe’s parents? Through the living room window, Zoe and I watch as her mom helps Jonah out of the back seat and her dad pulls a duffel bag from the other side. When Jonah emerges, he’s wearing a helmet, and he’s bigger than I expected — much bigger. He dwarfs Zoe’s mother, who is awfully slight, and he’s even larger than her dad, who is not a small person. Jonah stands for a moment in the driveway, rocking back and forth on his feet, and his mom gives him a gentle tug toward the house.

I glance at Zoe, who has a hand laid on her chest, her fingers at her collarbone. Her expression is one of happy anticipation, and it makes my heart squeeze. When her family reaches the door, she opens it and says, “Jonah!” She pulls him inside and hugs him tight, then steps back and looks up at him.

“Bao Bao,” he says, and I’m surprised by his voice, which is strong but also somehow pained. Maybe that’s just how he sounds. He leans his head down and presses the front of his helmet to Zoe’s head.

I am so mesmerized that I scarcely notice Zoe’s parents slipping in the door around us.

“Happy birthday, Zoe,” her mother says. “This must be Sam!”

“Yes,” I say, holding out my hand awkwardly. “Nice to meet you.”