“Oh.” Alex took the tea, rubbed his eyes with his other wrist. He nodded toward the discarded book cover on the floor. “It’s charcoal. Thing I’m doing for art.”

“Can I come in a minute?”

Alex sat at his desk while his mum’s partner perched on the bed, dumping the laundry beside him.

“So—” Carl stopped, frowning. “Hey, are you bleeding?”

“Oh.” Alex sucked at his thumb, wiped it on his jeans. “Paper cut.”

“Oooyah. Well, make sure you wash it, get a Band-Aid on. By the way, what happened here?” From the heap of clean clothes, Carl pulled out Alex’s black hoodie, then waggled two fingers through a rough little rectangular hole on the back.

“I don’t know.” Alex frowned. “I’ve never noticed that.”

“A mystery.” Carl nodded. “Probably the same thing puts holes in my socks. Gremlins come when they’re on the clothesline.” He smiled at Alex. “So, uh, how you doing?”

Alex sipped tea, nodded, and shrugged. “Yeah, fine.” He waited for whatever was coming.

“Getting on okay at school, I mean?”

“Mmm-hm.”

“No trouble or anything.”

“Nope.” Alex shook his head. “Everything’s fine.”

“Good. Great. It’s just, well, your mum. You know: your mum. She worries. She’s worried you’ve been keeping to yourself a bit, and, y’know, we got that letter about you falling behind with homework. . . .”

“I’ve just been a bit tired.”

“Ha. Yeah. Tell me about it. God, when I was your age, I was sleeping all the time. Should’ve heard my dad. But, I mean, Alex, you know, if there ever was anything— I mean . . .”

Alex swigged more tea and sat staring at his bloody thumb while Carl went through all the things he thought might be troubling him. He could just see the old toy robot lying in the shadows under the bed, behind Carl’s feet.

“. . . remember what it was like,” Carl was saying now. “I’m not that old. Alex, what I’m saying is: sometimes there might be things you might not want to talk to your mum about. But I’m here, you know. You can talk to me. About anything. I mean, I know I’m not your dad, but I—”

“That’s right.”

“What?”

“You’re not my dad,” Alex muttered, without looking up. As soon as the words were out, he wished he could call them back.

Carl opened his mouth, reconsidered. He smiled, stood, and took Alex’s empty mug. At the door, he paused. “I mean it, though, Alex. Anytime. Anything.” He closed the door softly. Alex sat feeling shabby, listening to footsteps descending stairs, rain at the window.