She stands up and I follow her into the dim house. She takes off her coat and hangs it in the hall closet, leaving her in a faded baseball shirt and yoga pants. I look away, uncomfortable about how much I want to stare at the way the fabric hugs her curves. Only the oven hood casts light into the kitchen and living room, both of which are decorated with incredible sparseness even by my mom’s neat freak standards. I follow her inside and quietly close the door.

Zoe signals me to follow her, putting a finger over her lips so I know to be quiet. Somewhere in the house I hear a T V — a movie, maybe. Halfway down the upstairs hallway, she hesitates beside an open door as a flicker of intense sadness passes over her face. She keeps going, and I sneak a curious glance inside what must be her brother’s room. The streetlamp outside the open blinds casts enough light that I can make out posters on the walls, mostly of birds, many of them torn and wrinkled. I remember Zoe’s request for the Fairy Godbot — that it be able to send colorful birds to Jonah. He must love them. I’m already sketching one in my mind, more fantastical than anything he’s ever seen. I wonder if he’d like that.

We go into her bedroom, which is the opposite of mine. Her bedspread is a pale pink, with an intricate floral design, whereas my bed coverings are just sheets and a haphazard pile of afghans knitted by Mom. Zoe doesn’t have posters tacked up crookedly on the wall or random stacks of books all over the place. Everything is tidily put away, the books alphabetized on their shelves, the nail polishes lined up in color order along the back of her vanity. My mom would love this.

A shimmery aquamarine dress hangs from a hook on the outside of her closet door, the tags still attached. It’s studded with tiny gems that grow more dense the farther up they go, and then the bodice gives way to sheer fabric at the top. If Zoe had worn it, she would have looked like a fairy or a mermaid, something too ethereal and beautiful to belong on this broken planet. The past few days must have been incredibly hard for her if she didn’t feel up to going to the dance. I feel bad.

“Is that what you were going to wear to the dance?” I ask.

“Yeah. Stupid freaking dress,” she mutters.

“Stupid what dress?” I ask.