When I dare to glance up, I collapse into giggles at his expression.

He squints and shakes a fist at me. “Why I oughta . . .”

“Couldn’t resist,” I say, rinsing the rag in the sink. “What time will Mom be home?”

“Soon, I hope. The appointment was supposed to be short.”

I hope it’s good news, because if it’s not, she shouldn’t be alone for it. But it’s hard for one of us to be available to go with her, with work, school, and caring for Jonah. Anyway, her appointments have all been similar: okay but not great (i.e., the cancer is not entirely gone, but not growing or worsening) since she finished her second round of chemo in June, but I never stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. How can I not, when the cancer is still there? They call it “partial remission,” which to me almost seems like an oxymoron.

I peer into the fridge. There’s a container of meatballs and tomato sauce from the store. I’ll make spaghetti — easy, and Jonah loves it, although afterward he’ll look like a silly string factory exploded on him.

My dad pours himself some red wine, mumbling something in Latin like he always does, and takes his work into the living room to grade while he sits with Jonah.

I’m putting a pot of water on to boil when my phone dings with a text message, bong-bong, a perfect fourth that always gets “Here Comes the Bride” stuck in my head. I pick it up, guessing it’s my mom, and then worrying it’s bad news. But it’s not Mom. It’s Sam Jones.

Curious, I open it, hoping she hasn’t changed her mind about lending me her painting. Her message says: Bring me back another slice of pizza or I’m gonna mess up your Temporal Omnibox with my Fission Pole.

I stare at her words. The only noun I understand is “pizza.” This message clearly came to me by mistake. I consider what to do about it.

Sam is . . . different. Prior to yesterday, my primary memory of her was from seventh-grade art, when she used to hide under a table in the back of the room, drawing. Even in middle school she never wore anything but jeans and hoodies, her dark-blond hair in its ever-present ponytail. She was the best artist in the grade by miles, and I don’t know if she was just trying to isolate herself from the rest of us or if she somehow felt unsafe in the world. Whatever it was seems to have held true, if her personal fortress of giant canvases in the art room is any indication. I can relate to that; I know a thing or two about the need for walls.

Before I can respond, another text comes through.

Sorry . . . that was for Will. *unplugs self and implodes into mortification vortex*