He stood in the kitchen, staring at the pile of dishes in scummy gray water, at the refrigerator with the door that wouldn’t close all the way, at the range with the foil-wrapped drip pans, crusted now with a layer of burnt black food. At least the place smelled like lasagna, even if it was only temporary. For another minute, Jem stood there, flexing his hands. Then he did what he always did.

First, he went through the cabinets, checking cans.

“Why haven’t you eaten any of the vegetables?” he shouted into the living room.

“I don’t like French-cut green beans.”

“These aren’t French cut.”

Silence for thirty seconds. Then, “They have too much sodium.”

“Why didn’t you eat the fruit cocktail?”

“I’m on a diet.”

“You’ve got to eat something that didn’t come in plastic wrap,” Jem said. “I’ll make carrots; I saw some in the freezer.” He opened another cabinet. “Benny, where’s that spice rack? I’ll put some garlic powder in the carrots.”

The only answer was papers shuffling.

“Benny?”

Next door, Mrs. Johnson was shrieking about her lying, piece-of-shit husband, and then there was a deep, gonging noise that made Jem picture a cartoon cat getting struck by a cartoon frying pan.

From the opening to the living room, Jem asked, “Benny, spices?”

Benny wouldn’t look up.

“Jesus Christ, Benny,” Jem said. “Again?”

“I needed cash to buy my girlfriend dinner. Elisa said she’d give me twenty bucks for the spice rack.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Benny. That shit costs me money, ok? All this costs money. I don’t buy you fucking groceries so they can sit in your fucking cabinets, and I don’t buy you fucking spice racks so you can sell them to fucking Elisa so you can have twenty fucking bucks to buy your fucking imaginary girlfriend a fucking hamburger.”

“She’s not imaginary,” Benny said.

“What’s her name?” Jem said, louder than he meant to. “Where’d you meet her? What’s she do for work? What’s her favorite fucking color, Benny?”

Flinching, Benny tried to maneuver his bulk closer to the pages, tried to make himself smaller, which was hard to do when he was over two hundred pounds.

Opening and closing his hands, Jem said, “Sorry.”

Benny crossed something out; his hand was shaking.

Moving to the couch, Jem dropped down, met by the sour stink of body odor. “Benny, I’m sorry. It’s just—it’s a lot of stuff.”

“I don’t need you to buy me anything.”

“I know.”

“I never made up an imaginary girlfriend in my whole life.”

“I know.”

“I’m fine,” Benny said. “I don’t need you.”

Jem studied the bagged newspapers, the magazine pages cut out and pasted over the windows, the greasy smears in the carpet, the handwritten manifesto spread out in front of Benny. He closed his eyes and said, “I know.”

Next door, Mrs. Johnson was sobbing.

“Why did I tell you to be careful around girls?” Jem asked.

“The same reason you’re careful around boys.”

“Which is what?”