I grin despite myself — the way she narrates her actions cracks me up. I write back: Don’t be mortified. I once accidentally texted my dad a message meant for my boyfriend. It might have contained the phrase “bulge in your pants.”

The response that comes says: *peers out of vortex* You win. *gives you a trophy and also a medal* Luckily, my dad might as well live on another planet. And actually be an alien life-form. Without the abductions or probes.

I laugh. I’m surprised somehow — I had no idea she’s so funny. I guess you never know what lies under the surface. Still, I’m not sure how much she’s joking. Maybe there is something really weird about her dad.

I write: *is not sure what to make of that*

Unlike before, she takes several seconds to respond. Finally, she says: He moved away a long time ago.

A sudden cold ache spreads through my chest. I’m starting to see why she might need walls.

Before I can respond, another message flies in: At least nobody makes me eat beans on toast anymore.

Beans on toast? Why would anyone make someone eat beans on toast? While I’m trying to think of a response, I become aware of the sound of Jonah’s slow, shuffling footsteps. He stands in the doorway of the kitchen, rocking back and forth, avoiding my eyes.

“Dinner’s soon, sweetie,” I tell him. “Not yet. Later.” I make the sign for later, a swift downward motion with the letter L.

He makes a noise and takes another step into the kitchen, angling toward the pantry. He wants to sneak food, and I’m foiling his plan.

“No, Jonah,” I say, stepping toward him. Then I hesitate.

Handling Jonah isn’t as easy as it once was — not since he hit an early puberty, eclipsed two hundred pounds, and his outbursts of temper got harder to manage. Three years ago, when he was twelve, he broke my mother’s finger when she tried to take a bag of cookies from him. I remember running downstairs to see what the commotion was, how my heart hammered in my chest as she screamed at Jonah to let go, how my father came flying up from the basement — he’s always been the best at calming Jonah down. When they left for the emergency room, nervously leaving me to watch Jonah, it was like the world started over. I was beginning to process that it wasn’t just Jonah’s body that was growing and changing as he was going through puberty. He was changing emotionally, and his outbursts were changing and growing, too. As my mother headed out with my father, her hand packed in ice, she pulled me aside and said, “If he tries to take food or whatever . . .” She closed her eyes, shaking her head. “Just let it go.”