From behind the thick plaster walls comes the muffled sound of voices shouting.

“—best friend.” The voice belongs to Oliver. There’s another word that ends in an “—er.” It might be “murderer.”

Finn’s deeper brogue follows. I think I hear the word “sorry,” but I’m not sure.

Oliver replies, his voice a rumble through the door. He’s louder, angrier than Finn.

Suddenly there’s the sound of scuffling, of an object being knocked over. Finn cries out.

Then, as soon as it began, it ends.

The door swings open gently and the three of us scramble back to our places on the carpet. We pretend to lounge casually, heads propped up in our hands, legs spread out long.

Oliver exits the bathroom first. His face is stony, and he’s shaking out his right hand.

Finn walks out a moment later clutching his rapidly bruising eye.

I watch them in wide-eyed shock. My heart swells with pride as I watch Oliver check the joints of his fingers.

Maxine rises from the ground. “Need ice for your hand, Oliver?” she trills.

“That would be lovely, Maxine.”

“I’d like some ice as well,” Finn says.

“I’m sure you would,” Maxine replies on her way out the door.

She returns a moment later, and Oliver, clutching an ice pack to his hand, joins us on the carpet. Finn grimaces, but finds a spot between Maxine and Lena.

“So, we’re doing this together?” I ask.

“It appears that way,” Finn answers, his eye an angry red and swelling shut as he speaks.

“All right, then,” I say.

“All right, then,” Oliver agrees, ice against his knuckles.

We leave Finn in the guest room, and I barely sleep knowing he’s so near. I push the desk up against the door to stop him from coming to my room, even though I doubt he’s brave enough to try.

Oliver caught a pedicab home, because it will be difficult enough to explain the presence of one strange boy residing in the flat to Maxine’s mother and stepfather in the morning.

Well past midnight, I hear the soft padding of footsteps pacing in the hall. It could be any one of the members of this household or my own imagination, but there is only one face I picture lurking outside my door in the dark.

I feel as if I’ve only just fallen asleep when Greta knocks on my door with a silver carafe of coffee.

At breakfast Maxine announces to her family a new friend from New York will be staying for a few days. She can barely get out the word “friend,” but her mother and stepfather don’t seem to be particularly scandalized by the idea of a young man taking up residence in the flat.