I knocked another few times, waited awhile for a reply in case he was in the shower. I so desperately wanted to hear him in the hallway, imagined him with sopping wet hair, a towel wrapped around his trim waist, and muttering something like, “All right, all right, mate, keep your hair on.” He’d open the door and I’d fling my arms around him, then take a step back, put my hands on my hips and ask if he had any idea how worried I’d been. The imminent feeling of relief made me hold my breath, but when there was still no answer, I had to let it go.

Forced to concede Jack being in his apartment when the truck wasn’t there made no sense, I nonetheless invented stories. Maybe Sam had borrowed it. Unlikely, considering Jack had both sets of keys. Perhaps the Ford had broken down and Jack had got a ride home, or he’d parked the truck down the street for some reason, and I’d missed it when I’d driven by. Whatever the case, in all these scenarios Jack was inside either taking a shower, or fast asleep. I knocked again, cupping my hands against the frosted glass, peering inside and calling out Jack’s name, but the place remained dark and silent.

I thundered down the stairs and ran to Sam’s oversize front door, where I pressed my finger on the buzzer. I didn’t let go until Sam stood in front of me dressed in red-and-blue-striped pajamas, his thick white hair sticking up like fuzzy antlers above his temples.

“Hey, Lily,” he said as he rubbed his eyes, his yawn turning into a smile. Sam was always happy to see me. He’d once told me I reminded him of his daughter who’d moved to Los Angeles a few years ago. When I’d mentioned my parents lived there now, too, he’d declared it a sign and given me a bear hug. His fatherly affection was welcome, and more than I’d received from my mom and dad in years, ever since they’d banished me out of their lives and onto their pretentious look-at-our-perfect-family-just-don’t-ask-about-Lily Christmas card list.

Sam ushered me inside. I wasn’t sure how he did it, but although his house was large enough to fit an entire family, complete with kids, pets and a few sets of football gear, it was always cozy and inviting. Somehow the air smelled of freshly baked muffins despite Sam’s self-described inability to boil an egg. He grabbed a towel from the powder room and draped it over my shoulders, making me notice for the first time how cold and shaky I felt.

“Did I wake you?” I said, my teeth clattering an indecipherable symphony as I clutched the towel, bringing it closer to my chin.