“There are sunflowers in every direction,” said her father. “The sky is really blue, and you’re running in the sunflowers, and you’re so happy. That’s all you remember about tonight. Your mom and dad love you. We love you so much. Nothing else is real. Do you see the sunflowers, baby?”

Joey didn’t speak. She did see them. But the sky wasn’t blue, and she didn’t feel the happiness he was describing. She felt Nacho Chip’s cold nose poke her arm.

Her father said, “Good job, baby.”

Then he said, “Good night, Joey. I love you more than you can imagine.”

He said, and she remembered it now, “You didn’t see anything.”

*  *  *

Joey didn’t know if she’d ever witnessed sunrise in the summer. Sunrise, period. She stepped onto the terrace where her father was drinking a blue smoothie. Before them rose Corfu Town in the peek-a-boo of morning, the sky shredded in orange.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Her father laced up his sneakers. “Want to come running with me?” Joey shook her head. “Everything okay?” He was wearing the T-shirt she’d made for her parents’ tenth anniversary, with a picture of them in their twenties, looking happy and slightly red in the face, squinting at the sun.

Was everything okay? Well, yes, life was wonderful, but still, sometimes Joey’s mind dove into the crevices. Demetris called her a Sensitive Person. Life is harder for a Sensitive Person, paidi mou. But life is more beautiful for a Sensitive Person.

Joey wished she were not a Sensitive Person. That she was more like Bea, who only heard the good things people said. Your painting is beautiful, but why is there a green blob on the right half and do you think the lines of the butt should create more of a Victorian shape, and maybe you want to reconsider the facial structure, the jaw is a bit square. All Bea heard was, Your painting is beautiful.

Joey, on the other hand, heard the criticisms. Demetris said, Your life will be difficult if you can’t believe a compliment, paidi mou. But she couldn’t change who she was.

“Yes, of course, Dad. Everything’s good.” She didn’t ask, Who was on the terrace that night when I was eleven? What exactly did I not see? “Did you and Maisy dance late?”

“Dance?”

“Yeah, you were still dancing when I went to bed.”

“Were we now?” Her father grabbed his wrists to the right and stretched his hips left. “Well, that’s funny. I’m a terrible dancer.”

“No arguments here,” said Joey, immediately flinching at how unnecessarily mean she’d sounded.