My pulse pounds dully in my ears as I walk to the garage. Maybe I’m an idiot to be texting with Zoe Miller when trying to make new friends is pointless. I’d either have to train them on all the rules, which would be ridiculous, or I’d risk my mom melting down when someone doesn’t accommodate her needs, which would be horrifying. And then how could I protect my mom from being judged, maybe even being the subject of gossip and ridicule? This is why the sum total of my friends is likely to remain Will, who obeys the invisible barrier surrounding my house and my need for schedules because he’s one of those people who is totally unfazed by people’s quirks. But even he doesn’t know what this is like — being here, right now, with Mom. Being the one who makes sure she’s okay, and that we get through, and that sometimes I get almost enough sleep.

Mom stands by the button to the garage door, her finger hovering over the button to close it again, but she’s also counting under her breath. There’s no telling how many times she’s going to open and close the door if I don’t stop her. The only guarantee is that it’ll be some multiple of four.

“Dinner’s ready,” I say, keeping my tone light.

“I’m not sure it’s closing all the way,” she says. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“I know,” I say, but I really don’t.

I don’t know why a door can be closed the same way but either be right or wrong.

I don’t know why things are easier for her when they involve even numbers, preferably fours.

I don’t know why she has to go up and down the stairs a certain number of times a certain way before it “feels right.”

I don’t know why she has to check the windows every night to make sure they’re latched, even though we never open them except in summer.

I don’t know why she is reluctant to start a new task if the clock isn’t on a number that ends in zero.

“How about I’ll close it while you put dinner on the table?” I suggest.

She looks at me, and then back at the door.

“You opened it twice and closed it once, so closing it this time will be the fourth time you pushed the button,” I say. Mom logic.

“Okay,” she says, hesitating.

“I’ve got this. It’s fine,” I say.

“I love you,” she says, and squeezes my shoulder before heading back into the house.

I wait a few moments to make sure she isn’t coming back, then close the garage door a final time.