“I’m real sorry…” I tell Ricky’s mom, suddenly hyper-aware of my empty hands and shabby clothes. “Um…I put the oven on. You want me to heat you up his meal too?”

A-plus comforting, Connor. “Your son’s dead. Want his food?”

“I can’t eat that caca,” Mrs. Hannigan says, munching another Goldfish. “All I can stomach right now are my little fishies.” Her hand jitters as she nips the corner off another pretzel. “I should have called you, too, but I…” She taps her forehead and winces back a headache.

“It’s cool. I don’t actually have a phone.”

Mrs. Hannigan’s lips upturn in a surprised half smile. “You’re the first kid I ever heard of who doesn’t got his nose buried in a phone.”

My nose would be buried in a phone if it could, BELIEVE ME.

“No,” I admit, “I…actually got punished.”

Ricky’s mother scrunches her brow as her round face begins to collapse. God, she’s going to start bawling and I’ll be the absolute worst supportive stranger ever. “Come here,” she says weakly. I step deeper inside the room, and somehow, the flower stench gets worse. A rank, deathly smell. “Connor, you and my son talked a little, and you’re a good boy… Ricky told me you’ve been having trouble at home.”

Disorientation tilts the room again. I had brought Ario up to Ricky—maybe unwisely, given how things turned out—but I assumed Ricky couldn’t speak well enough to repeat much. Was he the one who told the Reverend about Ario?

“What’s this trouble you got going with your mom?” Mrs. Hannigan asks, her recliner’s springs plunging down as she scoots closer. I really don’t want to hear any religious crap from this lady because then I’ll have to tell her to mind her business and she just lost her son.

But, hey, she asked.

“I got a boyfriend,” I say. Mrs. Hannigan doesn’t blink, so I elaborate: “My mom didn’t like it, and uh…she took my phone away. It’s getting impossible to see him or even talk to him, and um…he’s leaving for college soon. We’re running out of time.”

My heart liquefies as the truth rises in me—I might never see Ario again.

My confession doesn’t sit well with Mrs. Hannigan, either. She swallows a quick, gasping breath, dusts her fingers free of pretzel salt, and reaches for me. Gently, she traces her fingertips in a circle around my face and simply watches me. I watch her. In this moment, she reminds me so much of my grandma, seeing me clearly and with perfect understanding. The only one in my family who could make me feel okay again. The only one who could talk sense into my mom.

“—I told you I don’t know!” the Reverend shouts from upstairs.

Neither of us blink. The spell doesn’t break, even as Mrs. Hannigan’s serene expression buckles like a cloud ready to storm. She’s so vulnerable—this is my only chance. “Mrs. Hannigan?” I ask. “What happened to Ricky? Why was he in this bed?”