I nudge Skylar, but she’s focused on telling Mr. Boyce why we’re here. “It’s about Ms. Sullivan,” she says again, louder and slower this time. “We don’t know what to do.”

“Come in,” he says. The curtains are closed in the living room, giving it a strange underwater feeling, and the house is hot and stuffy. In the dim light I see a clutter of books and papers and toys scattered on the floor and the furniture. Why hasn’t anyone opened the curtains or cleaned up? Where’s Mrs. Boyce? Where’s Andy?

“You girls must be heartbroken,” Mr. Boyce says. “It’s terrible. No one knows what to do. No one expected—We all love Kris. She’s, she was . . . so kind, so talented.” He breaks off and shakes his head.

He sounds so sad. I start crying again.

He pats my shoulder. “Kris is so proud of you,” he says. “You’re her best student. You are . . . you were . . . I just can’t—” He pulls a used tissue out of his pocket and blows his nose.

I cry harder, and he hands me a box of tissues. I start apologizing for crying, but he says, “It’s okay to cry, Abbi, it’s okay.”

“But why did it happen?” I ask. “Why did she die? She was a good person. Why does God allow bad things to happen to people like her? I don’t understand.”

Mr. Boyce sighs. “Sometimes there’s no explanation for things like this,” he says. “Even the greatest philosophers can’t tell you. It’s the big existential question, isn’t it?”

He looks at Skylar and me as if he expects us to understand, but neither of us has any idea what existential means. It must be a question without an answer.

I blow my nose and wipe my eyes and gulp a few times. Skylar and I follow him to the kitchen, which is a worse mess than the living room. The garbage can is full, and I can smell leftover Chinese takeout. The recycling bin overflows with beer cans. Dirty dishes cover a lot of the countertop and fill the sink. Flies crawl on a cantaloupe rind on the table.

“Excuse the mess,” he says. “My wife’s mother is recovering from surgery. Rose and Andy are spending a few days with her. I’m not much good at cleaning up after myself.”

“You should see my house,” Skylar says. Unlike me, she’s beginning to relax. “Nobody in my family is any good at cleaning up either.”

He pours a cup of coffee from one of those fancy machines that make all sorts of drinks, even cappuccino. “Do you girls drink coffee? Or would you prefer orange juice or water?”