After a few games of pool, Arch led me upstairs and down another corridor decorated with family photos, to his bedroom. He had a desk set strewn with books and school supplies, a queen-sized bed, a cabinet filled with awards and trophies, Pink Floyd and Grateful Dead and Rolling Stones posters on the walls. He disappeared into his closet and came back out holding a pair of yellow swim trunks.

“My old Birdwells,” he said. “Size medium. Try them on.”

“Where’s the bathroom?” I asked.

“What?” he said. “Scared to get naked in front of me?”

It felt like some sort of dare. I took off my shoes and pants. Eyes fixed on the floor, I slid off my underwear and stepped into the yellow trunks.

“Fit all right?” Arch asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”

He stripped before searching his drawers for his swim trunks and a T-shirt. I was unused to being around another boy so at ease in his nakedness. This turned out to be the case for many of the Yeatman boys, conditioned as they were, from years in country club and private school locker rooms, to be unashamed of their bodies. It was easier for Arch, no doubt. He was tan and lean and muscled. I took my time tying my shoes.

I followed him back downstairs into the kitchen. He grabbed his keys and sunglasses off the counter and walked out the back door.

“Bye, Mom,” Arch called.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To the Haltoms’,” he said.

Haltom—that was the name of the man sitting in the office during my interview with Dr. Dodd, watching over the whole proceeding like some sort of auditor.

We drove through the leafy lanes until we came out onto Belle Meade Boulevard. Both sides of the street were lined with houses too grand to be called such. I had difficulty imagining anyone actually lived in such places—that to someone, these places were home.

“The Haltoms are old friends. Family, really,” Arch said. “You probably know Jamie. He’s a freshman too. His twin sister, Vanessa, goes to Steptoe. We’ve known each other all our lives. Jim Haltom is like a dad to me, especially since my own dad died.”

“Your dad died?” I asked.

“I didn’t tell you that, did I?” he said. “I forget sometimes that people don’t already know. Yeah, my dad died, when I was twelve. Brain cancer.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“At least I had him for twelve years, right? You never got to know your dad at all.”

“I didn’t know what I was missing.”

“I guess you could look at it that way. Anyhow, Uncle Jim was my dad’s best friend since college. He promised my dad he’d look out for my mom and me. He’s pretty much my best friend, to tell you the truth.”