So he’d seen them, Park thought, surprised; though of course the school must have been transmitting them to him all this time. “They are,” she admitted.

“You work hard,” her uncle mused. “Where are you going, again?”

“New Boston,” Park said. “Hanson-Skinner University. I earned a scholarship.”

A flicker of surprise crossed her uncle’s face. “Hanson,” he repeated. “The robotics designer—so you’re going for robo-psychology?”

“No,” Park answered coolly. “Just human psychology.”

“Funny,” he said, half to himself. “I wouldn’t think your interests lie there. You have to pass tests, you know. For empathy, amiability. Et cetera.”

“I’m aware.”

“Well,” he said again. He had the air of dusting his hands off, though he didn’t actually move. “Good for you. Do you have a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?”

“Neither,” Park said flatly. Despite herself, she could feel her neck reddening; she was glad that Glenn had left.

“Hm,” Park’s uncle said. “Well, that in itself is no cause for concern.”

He leaned back and drummed his hands against the worn, scuffed table; his ankle was resting on his knee in a way that Park found to be over-professorial, as if he ought to be in an armchair smoking a pipe. “Does Glenn cook the meals around here, or do you?” he asked.

“Glenn does, for the most part. Though I’ve learned.”

“You’re self-sufficient,” he said again. “That’s good. Good.”

Park studied him closely for the first time since she’d sat down. She couldn’t see the resemblance in their faces, other than the seriousness of their expressions. Park’s hair and eyes were dark, her features slim and Asiatic; her skin was tanned, and there was a dusting of light freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her uncle, on the other hand, was pale-haired, the locks as soft and curly as a child’s, and he was permanently sun-burnt and flaking. His body was heavy and round. The skin on his hands seemed too papery for the amount of time he spent outside. Not for the first time she wondered if they were even blood-related, if he wasn’t simply a stepbrother to her father or even an adoptive stranger. She found herself wishing that he’d comment that she took after her mother.

“You seem good,” she remarked, trying for courtesy. “Happy.”