She paused, and I prepared myself for yet another apology and overly detailed explanation for how it had slipped her mind because she had been negotiating with the roofers all morning, or she wasn’t really sure who to call because John’s office was full of paperwork that needed to be dealt with, and so on and so on. I believed her—I knew how busy she was—and I tried not to resent the fact that she had more going on in her life than just looking after me. But I did really want internet access. At least if I went into town with them, I could get a signal on my phone. I would happily sit in the car if it meant spending a few minutes reading about the world (and, let’s be real, celebrity gossip).

“John and I had a talk about this last night. I was going to bring it up in the garden earlier, but we didn’t really get a chance.” She glanced away, leaving an unspoken criticism hanging in the air: my weepy episode while trimming back the lavender that morning must have sidetracked her plans. “Margot . . . we don’t believe in giving children unlimited access to the internet.”

“Oh, I don’t need unlimited access,” I said.

I guess she’d expected resistance, and my spontaneous answer caught her off guard. She pursed her lips. “I mean . . . unsupervised access.”

“So I get no access?” I cringed at the bratty sound of my voice. Bad orphan.

“No, no,” she said. “We just don’t want you to be glued to a phone or computer all the time. Numbing your synapses with electronic stimuli is just about the worst thing that can happen in terms of your mental, emotional, and intellectual maturation. You’re young, and your brain is still in a crucial developmental stage.”

Even though she hadn’t said it, I got the feeling she meant my defective brain in particular. I felt too stung to answer. Embarrassed, even. For weeks, I’d believed her when she said she was trying to find the password. And all that time, she’d been bluffing. Probably relieved that I was too dumb to question her.

“Do you actually have the internet at all?” I braced myself for a lie. I’d seen the little Wi-Fi signal on my phone—I just couldn’t access it.

She cocked her head slightly. “Of course we do. There’s a computer in John’s office and one in mine. You can use those, if a need arises—like for school.”

“But how—” I stopped myself. I’d been about to ask, How do I get in touch with my friends if I can’t even text? Then I remembered I didn’t have any friends. And living here, I had no way to make new ones.