“Please, Margaret, sit,” John said, and I sat in one of the chairs and then tried to make myself appear fascinated by the walls of books. Whatever they were about to say loomed over us like smog, and I didn’t want to look up into their eyes and see that they knew it, too.

Laura began to speak, then stopped herself and coughed a little, as if the words had choked her. There was a long silence. It was so painful that I was compelled to speak.

“So . . . Agatha,” I said. “How old is she?”

They both answered at once. “Sixteen,” John said, while Laura said, “Seventeen.”

They exchanged a tense look, and then Laura sat down in the chair across from mine. “Seventeen,” she said again.

“And what’s . . . wrong with her?” I cringed inwardly when I heard myself ask the question, but neither Laura nor John seemed bothered.

“Agatha is sick,” Laura said. “Up until eight and a half months ago, she was your typical happy teenager. She went out with her friends, went to parties, loved shopping . . . you know.”

I nodded as if I could relate. I had no memories of being a happy teenager. Everything in my life before the accident had been wiped into a smeary haze. Maybe I’d been happy. I guess so. But I didn’t remember much about it.

“And then, one day . . . everything changed. She changed. It was as if she became a different person. Angry. Disturbed, almost. We were baffled and helpless—we had no idea what could have caused it. And then just as we were getting help, she . . .” Laura’s voice trailed off.

I looked at John.

He swallowed hard. “She . . . shut down. Like someone had flipped a switch. And she became what she is now. She’s very cooperative and doesn’t cause any trouble. She can feed herself, dress herself . . . shower with a bit of help. She can walk. And we think she can read, though we’re not entirely sure.”

“She’s not interested in reading,” Laura said.

“What is she interested in?” I asked.

They glanced at each other.

“Nothing, as far as we can tell,” Laura said, her voice straining to sound casual. “Whatever you feed her, she’ll eat. Wherever you take her, she’ll go. Doctors’ appointments, needles, examinations—nothing bothers her. The doctors think it may have been some kind of aggressive bacterial infection that affected her frontal cortex . . . Do you know much about the brain?”

I shook my head and sat back in the chair. Well, no big deal, I told myself. So they have a catatonic daughter. Agatha’s a person with a medical condition. You can live with a person who has a medical condition.

I had nothing against sick people. When you thought about it, it really had nothing to do with me.

“You’re probably wondering,” Laura said slowly, “what this has to do with you.”

Oh.