Fifteen minutes late. Head down as he approaches Karen and then just sits there. No hello? she says, eyebrows raised. Hi, he mumbles. You want to give me your algebra homework? I, um, don’t have it. She presses her lips together, looks away, then back at him. Why not? He shrugs. Sorry. You just didn’t get to it or you didn’t know what you needed to do, or…? He smooths his hand against his knee. I just, uh. Didn’t. Do it. Long silence. He can feel her deciding whether to be angry or let it go, help him or not help him. He pulls out his algebra book. Thinking of what Nova said, about Peter and the others in the basement, like cockroaches, if she thought that was bad what would she think of this, a supreme waste of time, but what choice does he have. Karen leans forward, pencil lifted; they do the homework together. It takes them an entire hour. No, it’s wrong, look, check the formula, she says, and he checks it, he tries, paper worn through where he has to erase again and again. Finally he passes the paper to Karen for the last time. Hallelujah, she sighs, sitting back in her chair. Glances at the clock. Could you give me a sec? she says. I need to make a call. He shrugs. Sure. She stands, bumping her thigh into the lip of the table, looking at her phone. Goes outside for five minutes, ten, fifteen; he can see her through the window, pacing around her car before leaning against the door, head down. He waits. A child and its mother stare at him from another table, a box of broken crayons between them; he pretends not to notice. Opens a textbook at random, reads. Karen returns, tapping his shoulder with something wrapped in wax paper. Here, she says. What is it? Peanut butter sandwich. What’s in the bread? She snorts. Nothing. Wheat. He looks up at her. Xie, it’s vegan, I promise. No corn syrup, all-natural, the whole nine yards. He takes it. Thanks. They sit on the steps. He eats half of the sandwich, slow, picking out a seed from the bread to drop on the concrete for the ants. Chin on his knee. Some girls picked you up the other day. They your friends? Yeah, that’s FKK. FKK? It’s their—group name, like a thing they started. For animal rights. Ah, Karen says. Compatriots. I guess, he says, watching as the ants surround the seed. What kinds of thing does FKK do? Xie frowns, chin wrinkled against his jeans. Actions. Actions? Like, protests, or signing petitions, writing to politicians. What kind of protests? Um. Just, against factories and stuff. We did one last year. At the outlet mall. In Alliance? Yeah, that one. We downloaded these signs from the PETA website. He shakes his head, remembering. THE PRICE OF YOUR FASHION IS MURDER. Pictures of cowhides piled in leather factories, rabbits being de-furred, silkworms poured into vats of boiling water.