“Yeah, well, I could if I wanted to,” she says, fiddling with her fingers. “I just didn’t want to leave all my friends behind.” She won’t look at me.

“Yeah, that can be hard. I didn’t have that many friends, though. I had my brother. And Otter.” I sigh. “And Dom.”

“Who’s Dom?”

“This guy.”

She grins. “This guy,” she says. “Must be some guy if you get all swoony.”

“I’m not swoony!” I sort of am.

“Totally swoony. Like, boy-band swoony.” She giggles to herself, and it’s a happy sound, a carefree sound. A little girl sound. It hurts. It hurts to know I’ve missed this. That I’ve missed all of this.

“Maybe a little,” I say.

“He’s pretty rad?”

“Very rad.” The most rad ever. He might even be gnarly. “Well, for the most part. He’s not a vegetarian.”

She laughs, long and loud. She holds her sides, and I can’t help but smile at her. She’s pretty, this girl.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re a v-v-vegetarian?” she asks me, wiping her eyes.

“Yeah. Why? Are you one too?” I ask, astonished.

This sets her off again. “Of c-c-course not!” she howls. “I’m not a h-h-hippie! This is so funny! My long-lost brother shows up and he’s s-s-scared of bugs and m-m-m-meat.”

“Oh, har har,” I say as I scowl at her. “And why does everyone call me that? I’m not a hippie!”

She finally calms. “So, where is he?”

“Who?”

“Dom. Wow. Great memory. Maybe eat more meat, huh?”

“At the hotel,” I say, somehow resisting the urge to give her an Indian burn.

Her eyes go wide. “He’s here? Why didn’t you bring him?”

“Thought I should do this on my own. I don’t know.” It sounds stupid now that I’ve said it aloud.

“That’s stupid,” the little psychic (psycho) says. “You should never be alone. It sucks.”

Oh Jesus. “You’re not alone,” I tell her lightly.

She looks away again. “I didn’t mean me,” she says.

I think quickly. “You have a cell phone?”

“No. Mom says we can’t afford it. She has one, but it’s from Walmart. You can’t even download apps on it.” She says this like it’s the greatest travesty man has ever known. “I don’t even have e-mail. How archaic is that?”

“You have a piece of paper? Something to write with?”

“Why?”

“God, do you have to question everything?”

“Yes,” she retorts. But she scrounges on her desk and then hands over a scrap of paper and a Bic pen, the end pocked with teeth marks.

“Gross,” I say with a grimace.

“Oh please,” she says. “You’re gay. I’m pretty sure that’s not the worst thing you’ve ever touched.”

I gape at her. She stares back.

“Sisters,” I mutter and begin to write. Once I finish, I hand it over.

She looks down and mouths the numbers and words. “What is it?”

“My phone number. The address of the Green Monstrosity.”

She frowns. “Why would I need this?”

“In case you ever need help.”