He hasn’t been to the city since they moved two years ago, but for Thanksgiving a plane ticket arrives in the mail, his mother on the phone: You’re not even going to school anymore, what is so important out there that you can’t come see your mother for a few days? Because there’s a body here, he wants to say; because I can’t leave it. When he tries to refuse his father takes the phone, says, Of course he’ll come, he can’t wait. He exchanges the ticket for one for the train, adding two days to the trip but there is no way he will get on a fucking plane and he wants to tell her so, but Erik shakes his head. Just take the shuttle to the airport so she can pick you up. Why? Erik digging his palms into his eyes. You know why. The watchword of their life in the city being, Don’t upset your mother. So. Long goodbye to the body. P. off in the corner, liquid, not touching the sheet. The body resting on one hip, the knees nested together, the feet like bunches of twigs, brown and yellow, tangled at the base of the blanket. Skull turned into the pillow, tight jagged lines meeting where the three plates of bone fused solid, back when the body was a baby and the skeleton still soft, swimming inside its sea of flesh. He takes the hands in his. How light its touch is, mothlike, a creature devoid of violence. What if. Something happens. Nothing will happen, beloved, P. assures him. But when he shuts the front door he feels the sudden absence of them both. Turning to look over his shoulder. Where are you. The attic window dark. He takes his keys from his bag, hand against the door, but Erik calls, We’ll be late. Xie hesitates on the step, stomach cold, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Drops the keys back into the bag. Alone on the train, just. Sleep through it. Neck bent. Hood over your head. The hours melt over the windows, light to dark, dark to light, a man asking you to move your bag off his seat, thigh touching yours. Shrink up. Almost there. Finally at the station, then shuttle to the airport and Ellen with her enormous sunglasses and gold sandals reaching for him. Reek of jasmine and shampoo. Oh, my baby, she says, kissing his head. You have your bag? This is it, he says, indicating his backpack. Honey, that’s all you brought? Yeah. Travel light, I like that, Jerry says, clapping his shoulder with a grin, loose cotton shirt and long shorts, younger and shorter than Ellen, who leans against his side as if unable to stand without him propping her up. Backseat of their pristine SUV freshly vacuumed, air conditioner blasting. Ellen pats her hair. Gosh, you’re skinny, honey, you know that? Your dad says you do all the cooking. I don’t remember you being into that, are you sure you can manage it?