“This is a great winter camping tent right here,” she said. “You can test yourself by sleeping out a few nights. By morning, you’ll appreciate your mom and your humble bed.” She brought a digital thermometer on a leather cord that set off an alarm when your body temperature got too low—“In case you don’t realize you’re freezing”—stormproof matches—“So you don’t end up like a Jack London story”—a red sleeping bag of Everest caliber and an inflatable down-filled camping bed that packed down to the size of a wallet “for meditating in the holy wild.” She brought him cave-aged cheddar, pumpernickel bread, homemade truffle risotto from our favorite snobby diner, Racine Kringle, chocolate chip cookies with walnuts and coconut, and the largest jar of Nutella I’d ever seen.

Stefan said, “I accept these spectacular gifts from your spectacular self. And I promise to take my Nutella to the cathedral of nature.”

Julie always had a better everything. When Stefan told her that the list of therapists he got from his parole officer hadn’t been updated in fifteen years, she promised to email him some recommendations. I was glad he trusted her, but it made me wistful too. I wasn’t Julie, representative of the new and more efficient universe. I wasn’t a fixer with treats and answers. I hugged her. She’d brought me ten novels, five sweaters and the kind of lounging pajamas she imagined French writers wore while they composed.

Later that night, after I’d placed my phone on its charging station, the screen lit up with a text. It was so late that I knew it was the girl with the little voice.

How is Stefan? Did you tell him about my calling? Did you remind him not to talk about that night?

I hadn’t yet. I didn’t know how. And he would ask why. I turned the phone off.

4

It had been over a month since Stefan came home. If I didn’t ask my extended family to come celebrate his homecoming soon, it would look to him and to them as though I were ashamed. “You’re overthinking this,” Julie said the next time she stopped by. “We’ll just have a party with lots of food. We can have it at my house to avoid the usual ‘greeters’ who tend to camp out at your doorstep.” I agreed, especially when Jep pointed out that hosting a coming-home-from-the-penitentiary party at a house with picketers was like hosting a pool party with piranhas.