“Well, you got to stop pulling your hair like that.” She takes a thin strand of brown and gnaws on the end of it. Then she tugs it, hard. There are thin patches all over her skull, now. Her favorite thing is to tear hair out. Mine, hers. Makes no difference. “You want me to send you back early? Behave, for goodness’ sake.”

“Sorry, Dad.” She puts her head down over the page. She is probably not doing algebra, but at least she has the sense to pretend. We are quiet for a time, and then she says, “Dad?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll make dinner tonight. You look tired.”

“Thank you, Lauren.” I have to wipe a tear away before she sees it. I feel bad for being so grouchy. And I can’t help hoping that she is beginning to take an interest in food.

She makes a mess, of course. She uses every pan in the kitchen, and when she burns the bottoms the corky acrid smell fills the house.

“Stop watching me, Dad,” she says. “I can do it.”

I raise my hands and back away.

The pasta is only half cooked and the sauce is sloppy and tastes like nothing. It has little cold lumps of meat in it. I eat everything she gives me.

“Best dinner I ever had,” I tell her. “Thank you, kitten. You used the new chuck I got today?”

She nods.

“Mmmmm,” I say. “You’re not eating much.”

“I’m not hungry,” she says.

“Mommy used to say, ‘The chef never has an appetite,’” I tell her. “Your grandmother. She said that a lot. Along with, ‘Never call a woman insane.’”

“She wasn’t my grandmother,” Lauren says quietly. I let that go because she has made such an effort today.

Afterward I clean up, which takes some time, and we settle in for a quiet evening. Lauren sits in the middle of the kitchen floor. The night seems to be getting hotter, not cooler. Our skin is misted with sweat.

“Can I open a window, Dad?”

“You know we can’t.” I wish we could, though. The air is solid heat.

She makes a disgusted ugh sound and takes off her blouse. Her undershirt is dirty; we need to do some laundry round here. The dry sound of marker on paper is soothing. When the sound stops I look up. There is a sea of crayons around her, a rainbow of markers, all with their caps off.

“Lauren!” I say. “Caps back on, please. Markers don’t grow on trees.” But she stares ahead, eyes glazed.

“Are you OK, kitten?” She doesn’t reply, but gives a little gasp that makes my heart almost stop. When I put my hand on her brow it’s cold and clammy, like the underside of a rock.

“Hey,” I say. “Come upstairs, I’ll put you to bed…”