Allison surveyed the room, full of family and friends, the way a home should be. She snapped an imaginary picture, which she dubbed “New Year’s Night.” She took care to Photoshop the expressions: in reality Suzanne’s eyes were fierce, like that of a she wolf protecting her young; Grant’s mouth was frozen in an odd smile; Ted’s lips were pursed like a drawstring bag. By the time Allison was finished, they all looked beatific.

She turned her expression into something serene as well, because if her outsides reflected her insides at all, her expression was probably that of a madwoman.

Jillian and Adam barreled down the hallway and into the room, bursting into the imagined photo. Adam jumped into the rocking chair and Jillian sat on top of him, making him scream with laughter.

“What are we going to do?” Suzanne said.

There was really only one thing to do. Allison was the root cause of the demolition, after all. She was the one who had suggested to Suzanne that allergies might be causing Adam’s headaches. If she and Ted didn’t put them up, who would? “Why don’t you stay with us?”

“That’s too much,” Suzanne said. “We can’t.”

“Why not? You could sleep in my office.” Allison let herself look at Ted, who looked as though he’d just swallowed a hard-boiled egg, whole. “Tonight at least. Of course! Where else would you go?”

“A hotel,” Ted muttered.

“We can pull out the futon in the office,” Allison chirped.

“Maybe just for tonight,” Suzanne said, looking at Grant. His eyes were closed. She nudged him.

“What?” he said, startled.

“They’re letting us stay here tonight.”

He extended an arm toward Ted for a fist bump.

Ted hesitated, then reluctantly bumped back.

Allison went upstairs with bed linens, trailed by Jillian, who sat on the floor while Allison unfurled the bed and put on the fitted sheet.

“I can’t believe you didn’t ask me,” Jillian said.

“Ask you? Since when do we ask your permission to have houseguests?”

“Adam is not going to sleep in my room, Mom.”

Allison pulled the sheet taut and smoothed it with her hand. It was ten fifteen now. Nick might think something was wrong. Maybe he would be worried that something had happened to her. Maybe he would be angry.

“Is he, Mom?”

“Is who what?”

“Mom! Is Adam going to sleep in my room?”

“No, of course not.”

“He’s going to mess up my stuff.”

“Go get ready for bed.”

“I’m nearly thirteen!” she yelled.

“Jillian,” she warned in a voice that would have chastened her daughter in the past, but Jillian shot back a venomous “What?”