After a moment, I slow to a walk and realize I’m somehow in a part of the house I haven’t been in before. When did I take a different turn? This hall seems narrower than the hallways in the rest of the house, and it’s lit by lights that come out of the side of the wall like upturned hands. There is another hall to the left, and I decide to take it. But there’s no sign of the person who slammed the door.

“Hello?” I venture. My voice vanishes in the empty spaces. Nothing returns.

I keep going, and soon I have to go up a flight of stairs. I come to a short hall with two doors. I consider opening them but am scared of what I might find. The photo is stiff in my pocket. I go up another flight of stairs, and I find myself staring at a plain door with a dull brass knob. I open it.

I’m in the kitchen.

How did I get so turned around?

The transition from the basement hallway, which felt almost otherworldly in its stillness, to the very normal kitchen disorients me, and I stand there with my hand on the knob for an extra moment, the stairway door still open. What is this strange house? How long until I know my way around? How many secrets can one residence hold?

“Hi, Paul,” Tom says in a steady voice, approaching from what I assume is the direction of his bedroom, over by the garage. The kitchen and dining room and large open living room seem to be the axis around which the rest of the house rotates.

“Hey, Tom,” I say, closing the door, my heart still pounding. The photo feels conspicuous in my pocket.

“Looking around?” he asks in a disinterested voice, glancing at the door as he walks past and stops at the kitchen counter.

I nod. “Yeah. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Find anything interesting?”

“This place is huge,” I can’t help blurting out.

Something like a dim smile flashes across his face. I still find something about him uncomfortable, but I can’t pinpoint it. Is it because he’s so different from the teenager I was friends with? But if that’s the case, should I hold it against him? Don’t we all change significantly as the years go by?

There’s something else, though, something besides age. He’s so staid, so emotionless most of the time. Except when it comes to you—he seems to have a genuine interest in you.

Am I jealous?

The knot throbs on the side of my head. Now that I’m here, I’m finding it difficult to imagine giving you over to him. But it would be difficult no matter who it was. Giving you to someone else is unimaginable.

I miss him. The old Tom. I miss his big laughter and his teasing, his audacious claims and the way he ruled the room. This Tom seems a deflated version of my best friend, and I want that guy back.