“Francine,” Sean said, breathless from our sprint through the dark back to her house. “It was my fault, I told her to turn her phone off, I forgot mine was off, too. I didn’t set an alarm; we missed the movie; we were just at the beach—”

“Okay, Sean. Go home now,” she said.

“It wasn’t Muiriel’s fault, we were only talking, please don’t—”

“Now.”

He put his hand on my shoulder as he walked out the door. Terry Johnson barked. Once.

I’ll be homeless or dead in a year.

Francine dropped heavily into a kitchen chair, head in her hands. “Muiriel.”

“I know.”

“I called and called. This is why I got the phone in the first place, to avoid this exact moment we are currently in.”

“I turned it off and forgot. Kira sent me an eggplant!” My voice was unnaturally high.

“She sent you what?”

“Joellen can pick me up tomorrow if you want—just, please, Francine, don’t tell her why; she’ll have to put it in my record. Please.” It had been years since I cried this hard. Seriously. Years.

“Muiriel,” she said, loud. “Stop.”

I turned and ran upstairs to the lonely bed in the attic room and couldn’t stop crying, so I did not notice when she sat on the bed.

“Why won’t you tell me what kind of shampoo to buy?” she said.

I tried to breathe. “What?”

“None of your stuff is in the bathroom. Where do you keep your soap?”

I pointed to my suitcase, as always packed and neatly closed, on the floor.

The scratching came from the stairwell, Francine got up and brought Terry Johnson to the bed. “He’s worried about you,” she said. He climbed on me, found my face beneath my hair, and went to town licking my salty, tearstained cheeks.

“Listen to me. I would have only called Joellen, not the police. And you know Joellen never would do anything to hurt you. We wouldn’t do that to you. I swear.”

I held tight to Terry Johnson.

“You’re not leaving,” she said. “This is not a tragedy.”

Being homeless is a tragedy.

“I’ve known Sean his whole life. I trust him, and I know I can trust you; I’ve just never had a kid age out. I’m figuring it out as I go, trying not to confine you so much you do something stupid, but you’re not like other kids I’ve had—you’re so rigid about behavior and rules, the first thing I thought when you missed curfew was Well, she’s dead. I lost one. I’m not angry at you. Do you understand?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“I was worried, not mad.”

Interesting.

“Well. Kind of mad, but only because you made me worry. Scared me to death for a minute there. What does an eggplant mean?”