Jack washed Matty’s snarled hair and scrubbed him with a soapy washcloth and laved water over him. Knobby bones. Knees and shoulders. Spine. He drained the water and wrapped Matty in a towel and tousled his hair to dry it. Steam came off him like mist.

“Get on your PJs,” Jack said.

“Okay.”

“Are you hungry?”

Matty nodded.

In the bedroom, Jack took a chocolate chip granola bar and a fruit cup from the grocery bag and set Matty up at the table. Matty ate quietly. He kept looking at the door.

“What is it?”

He fidgeted.

“Tell me.”

“Do you think the truck could be out there?”

“I don’t think so.”

“They won’t be able to find us in here.”

“No, they won’t.”

Matty took a bite of granola bar, chewed. “There were sirens.”

“Yes.”

“Do the police think the truck is the bad guys?”

“I think so.”

“Because they ran over Red.”

“Yes.”

“And Red’s dead now.”

“Yes. He is.”

“Like Mom.”

Jack nodded. His eyes hurt. His throat.

“Are we going to die?”

“No. We’re not.”

“But we don’t know.”

“No. I guess not.”

He ate a bite of pear from the fruit cup. “So we have to be smart.”

“We have to be smart. Yes.”

“So they don’t find us.”

“They won’t. They won’t find us.”

“Can we stay here now, until Ava comes back?”

Jack hesitated. “I think so.”

Matty finished the fruit and licked the cup and scrunched up the granola bar wrapper. He looked like he was thinking. “We’re good guys,” he said. “Is that right?”

Jack nodded.

“And we’re smart to be here.”

“Yes.”

“Because we’re together.”

“Yes. Because we’re together.”

They lay next to each other in the bed, wearing pajamas and tucked under blankets. Matty said, “Will you sing a song?”

It was something he asked when he couldn’t sleep.

“Okay. Which one?”

“You choose.”

Jack thought of a song they used to sing. Sometimes he’d play it on his guitar and Matty’d sing. He figured Matty would like it. He began by humming the melody, and after a while he switched to singing softly. His voice wasn’t that good, but Matty never cared. He sang slow and gentle, until Matty’s eyes closed. For a while he kept singing. Matty always woke back up if he stopped too early. Later, after Matty was asleep, he kept hearing the tune in his head. The words.

I see trees of green, red roses, too

I see them bloom, for me and you.

He stared up at the darkness. The dull blue of the radio clock on the walls. That feeling in his chest—always there now—of not having quite enough breath.