“I hope your brother will be okay,” Jackie said.

“He’ll be what he’ll be. And we’ll all learn to be okay with whatever that is.”

Jackie said good-bye with her eyes.

“Good-bye, Jackie,” the mayor said with her mouth.

Jackie pulled on the door. It did not move. She pushed on the door. It did not move.

“Oh, right. Jesus. There really should be a sign,” she said, bleeding.

Back out in the wood-paneled waiting room there was a blond man with a big smile sitting at the desk.

“Hey?” she said.

“Yes?” he said, his voice all customer-service politeness.

It was not the same man as when she arrived. She did not know where she had seen him before, but the sight of him made her uneasy.

“Wasn’t there someone else here before? This old guy who didn’t talk?”

“Oh, oh no,” he said. His smile did not waver. “It’s always just been me here. You have a good day, okay?”

“Sure. Okay,” she said.

As she walked down the stairs, he pulled out some forms, picked up a pen, and silently smiled at the forms, writing nothing. Jackie did not even flinch passing the City Council doors this time. Nothing, not even the terrible council, was more frightening than the fact that no one seemed able to help her, least of all herself.

17

“You didn’t come home last night.”

Josh said this from the couch, book open across his legs. He had red claws and antennae. He was wearing baggy jeans and a Mountain Goats T-shirt, which Josh had once been kicked out of school for wearing, because of its strong political message siding with those who believe in mountains.

Diane stopped short of the kitchen. She hadn’t expected Josh to be up already. She was running on three hours’ sleep and had hoped to be up and out before him.

“I’m here now. I hate it when you wear that shirt.”

“Mountains are real, Mom.”

“I believe in mountains, Josh. It just reminds me of how I had to come pick you up from school and wait in the front office while the vice principal gave me a lecture about how inappropriate it is to raise a child to believe such nonsense. It was embarrassing.”

“Well, I’m not embarrassed by my beliefs.”

“I’m embarrassed to be told I’m a bad parent.”

“You aren’t home a lot these days.” It was a swerve, not a response. He wasn’t looking at her or his book. It was difficult to tell where he was looking because of the solid black eyes drooping from the ends of long, curved stalks atop his head.