Light spilled into the hall from an open doorway up ahead, and taking a fortifying breath, he stepped into the light.

They were all in the family room now: his sisters and brother on the floor in their pajamas, gathered around the radio; his mother in her chair next to the unlit fireplace, crocheting; his father in his chair next to the light, reading a book. In his mind, he saw their heads in the oven, blackened, peeling, stuck together, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to will the image away.

When he opened his eyes, they were all looking at him. His mother’s crocheting had stopped in mid-weave; his father had put down his book. He knew this couldn’t be real—a few minutes ago, they’d all been upstairs playing Parcheesi in the empty library, and there was no way they could have gotten downstairs and changed their clothes and settled into these new positions that fast—but it felt real, and he understood that even if the physical specifics weren’t what they were supposed to be, the underlying emotional realities were. He looked from his father to his mother. “Hello,” he said.

“Where’ve you been?” his father asked gruffly. He picked up his book, settled down to read.

“Fibber McGee’s on,” his mother said, motioning toward the radio.

He was thrown a little off balance. He’d been expecting something… different. But his parents were treating him as though he were still a child and this was an ordinary evening, and he’d simply shown up late to listen to his favorite radio show. He wasn’t sure what he should do, how he should react. Should he play along, pretend as though he were a child and try to fit into this cozy little scene? Or should he break the spell, be who he really was, say what he wanted to say, ask what he wanted to ask?

He thought for a moment, then walked across the family room to the radio, turning it off. His brother and sisters looked up at him, annoyed, but he ignored them and turned to face his parents. “We need to talk,” he said. “We need to talk about Donna.”

Once again, his father put his book down. His mother let her crocheting fall into her lap.

“She’s a bad girl,” Norton said.

His father nodded.

“She’s nasty,” Bella piped up. “She likes to play sex games.”

He expected his parents to shush his sister, chastise her, tell her not to talk about such obscenities, but they did not even flinch, and their serious gazes remained focused on his.

He swallowed hard. “She is nasty,” he said. “She does like to play sex games.”

His parents looked at each other.