I follow him towards the entrance, up three stairs on to a patio that encircles the house. There are two rocking chairs framing either side of the door, which sit eerily still. Ellis unlocks the door. ‘Come on in,’ he says in a breathy, ironic way, and I do.

The lobby is shaped and furnished like a living room, with a sturdy red wood reception desk in the centre, a straightened row of pens and a heavy leather-bound book sitting on top beside a vase full of carnations that look one day away from becoming potpourri. Patterns everywhere: the walls are papered a dark forest green; the couches upholstered with sort of yellow tessellated bursts; a throw is draped over an armchair that is nauseatingly reminiscent of a seeing-eye puzzle. There’s a lemony sweetness to the place that’s pleasant if artificial. Mahogany too. A glossy black piano dominates the far corner.

‘This place is like a time capsule,’ I say, and it’s an understatement. ‘It’s cute.’

‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s looked like this forever. Anyway. You still hungry?’

‘A bit,’ I admit. ‘But don’t worry, you don’t have to make anything.’

‘For real, it’s no b-biggie. Eggs and b-b-bacon?’ Ellis moves beneath an archway into what looks like the kitchen.

My mouth waters. ‘That’s really nice of you,’ I say, lowering myself on to one of the couches, and am swallowed by it in a way that threatens to put me to sleep. I think suddenly of home.

‘Did you come from a long way away or something?’ a disembodied Ellis calls, punctuated by the clattering of a pan.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well, my mom said you look tired. I didn’t think you looked like anything.’ He peeks his head back in. ‘Not that you didn’t look like anything, just not tired, I mean. I don’t know. Mom notices that stuff. Anyway you also had enough food in your car to feed a sm-sm-small nation.’

‘I left yesterday from Indiana.’

‘Oh, wow. And you drove all night?’

‘Mm.’ There’s a fireplace that’s caught my attention, homey and intimate, adorned with framed photographs. An unsmiling woman cradles a baby in black and white. What looks like a toddler Sylvia, wearing only a diaper, waters the flowerbeds outside with a hose arching from her puffed belly.

‘But you’re early,’ he says.

‘You know what – I didn’t want to be home any more. Couldn’t wait.’ It’s honest.

‘Oh.’ Quiet. I worry I spoke too seriously, revealed something uncomfortable without saying the words. Then, ‘That’s cool, anyway. I can’t wait until I can drive. I’ll be able to get my temps in November. I wouldn’t be able to here but you don’t have to be as old in Michigan, so that’s pretty cool.’

I toss my phone from hand to hand. ‘Are you moving?’