Zoe steps back, holding on to Jonah’s hand, and says, “Sam, these are my parents.”

Her dad reaches over to shake my hand. “Sam, great to meet you.”

“And this is Jonah!” Zoe says, beaming at him.

Jonah is facing away from me and he doesn’t turn, so I step over to see him better. “Hi, Jonah,” I say. I don’t know whether to shake hands or not, but I don’t want to seem rude, so I hold out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Zoe helps him shake hands with me. “This is Sam, Jonah. Can you say hi?”

He doesn’t do anything, but I’m not finished. I pull the poster out from behind me and say, “This is for you, Jonah.”

I hold the drawing up to show him. “The orange bird in the middle is a phoenix — a magical immortal firebird that is reborn in flames every time it dies. But I thought if there could be a bird of fire, then there needed to be ones made of other things, too.” I trace my finger over the birds made of water and leaves.

Jonah holds very still, his eyes on the picture.

“Jonah, what do you say?” Zoe’s mom prompts him. “Can you say thank you?”

He sort of smacks himself in the chin.

“Yes, good boy.” She turns to me. “That means thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” I tell him.

He makes a sound and raises his hand, opening and closing his fingers.

“Yes, Jonah!” Zoe exclaims. “Birds!”

“Good signing, Jonah,” Zoe’s dad says, patting Jonah on the back.

Zoe smiles at me. “That’s the sign for bird.” She demonstrates making what looks like a little opening and closing beak with her thumb and forefinger.

Zoe’s dad steps in and admires my drawing. Jonah takes it in both hands and makes a sort of keening noise I don’t know how to interpret.

“He’s happy,” Zoe whispers, smiling at me. She tugs me by the sleeve to follow her into the kitchen. Her mom propels Jonah in and says, “Jonah, do you smell something good? I made lasagna.”

Zoe’s eyes widen and she exclaims, “Mom! He just made the sign for eating.” She demonstrates moving her closed fingers to her lips. “Jonah! Good job.”

“They say he’s become quite consistent with signing,” her dad says. “Maybe we just weren’t persistent enough with it at home. He’s doing great.”

Zoe’s dad takes Jonah to the bathroom, and her mom washes up and puts in breadsticks to warm. “Thanks for putting this in and making the salad, Zo,” she says, pulling the foil off the lasagna.

A waft of garlicky steam makes my stomach growl.