I nod, because I’m not sure what to say. And she surprised me too. Zander has never been one of my favorite people. He has this way of being friendly to you while at the same time making you feel like you’re not quite worth his time. I don’t even know how to describe it, there’s just something off about him. For me, at least. No one else seems to have a problem with the guy. “It turned out okay. The reporters were gone when we got back.”

“Well if they come back, call me.” He shoves a forkful of meatloaf into his mouth and talks around it. “They shouldn’t be harassing her like that, she’s a kid.”

I nod. Part of me wants to tell Dad about the canoe trip, and how Olivia didn’t know about her mom winning the freaking lottery, but I don’t really want to see my mom’s eyes light up the way I know they would if I mentioned the same girl more than once at dinner. Maybe you can meet a nice girl now. That’s what I’ve heard ever since I quit, like it’s the one bright spot of this whole situation. Except I’m not trading in baseball for a girlfriend. A girlfriend isn’t going to help me focus on these art projects, or make me feel like I still know who I am. And it’s not like I haven’t gone out with girls, but I’m not bringing them home.

“Do you think I can get my car back soon?”

Mom sighs. “Let’s wait until your next appointment with Dr. Shah, okay?” She picks up her plate, sets her fork and knife on top, and walks to the kitchen. Like this is the end of the discussion, and she can just casually excuse herself.

“That’s not for another eight weeks. How am I supposed to survive an entire summer without my car? The last month has been hellish.” I tear my roll in half, even though I don’t want it. “And I feel like my vision’s getting better. It seems like it.” I close one eye, and then the other, watching my dad’s face fade away.

Even a room away, with her back to me, I can tell that Mom is sighing. “I know, but Dr. Shah said that might happen. That you’d get used to your decreased vision.” She turns from her spot at the sink. “Right?”

“Maybe we can make an appointment?” I plead.

Dad stops his fork just short of his mouth. “Six months, Aiden. The treatments take time. Just give it time.” It’s ironic, coming from my dad, the world’s least patient person.