“Sam helped,” Zoe says, pulling what must be Jonah’s dishes out of the cabinet. They’re plastic and sort of strangely shaped. “He has adaptive equipment,” Zoe explains when she sees my puzzled look. “It makes it easier for him, but it’s still going to be messy, so gird yourself.”

“I could use a little more mess in my life, as you know,” I joke, immediately regretting it when I see the quizzical expression on Zoe’s mom’s face.

“Her mom is kind of a neat freak,” Zoe says.

Understatement of the century.

“Ah,” her mom says, pulling out a spatula. “Well, this will be different.” She gives me a wry smile.

And it is. Mealtime with Jonah is . . . not tidy. But he loves his food and he loves his family and his family loves him and I love Zoe. There’s so much love at the table that it almost hurts. I want to live somewhere like this. Somewhere I can just be and exist without following rules, where the only guidelines are to enjoy the food and the people around me.

It doesn’t take long to get used to Jonah’s messiness and the way everyone pitches in between conversation and bites of food with wiping Jonah’s chin or helping him get a forkful of salad. It’s loud and there’s a lot of laughter, and the food is delicious and asymmetrical, and everyone has seconds of everything. At one point I ask Zoe’s dad about his field of study, and when he catches Zoe giving me an alarmed shake of her head, drawing her finger across her throat, he almost falls out of his chair laughing.

“The short version, Dad,” she says, brandishing a threatening breadstick at him.

I try to follow along when he talks about Jesuits and trees and agriculture and gold, but it’s like he studies all the parts of history I have the least interest in. It’s all I can do to keep my eyes from crossing. Thankfully, he soon asks me what I’m interested in studying in college.

“Art, I assume?” he says. “By the way, I had to practically wrestle that drawing away from Jonah to get him to wash his hands, didn’t I, Jonah?” He grins at his son, then turns his attention back to me. “You’re really talented.”

“Thank you,” I manage to say. “Actually . . . I want to design rockets.”