“I mean it,” she said.

“Fine.”

He did not sound as if he meant it. He picked up his bag and headed upstairs.

Evelyn watched him go. There had been a time when he was an easy child, cautious about new places and delighted by small successes. At twelve he had cried because his father laughed at him for being afraid of the lake’s deep end. At fourteen he had taken up martial arts because an instructor taught him to stand straight and breathe. At nineteen he had learned to mimic the instructor’s gestures without understanding his calm.

His room was filled with medals, resistance bands, and photographs of himself fighting. One shelf held textbooks from college, unopened and carefully arranged as if their presence proved he intended to return. Beneath the shelf was an old photograph of Trent at ten, holding a ribbon from a school race and smiling at the camera with an expression uncomplicated by ambition.

He seldom looked at that picture.

He checked his phone instead. A clip of his morning workout had collected several hundred views. The caption read, No excuses. No mercy. The work starts before sunrise. A friend had commented, Tell the old guy next door to keep up.

Trent smiled and replied with a laughing emoji.

He could not know that every time he turned another person into a punchline, he made himself a little less capable of recognizing that person as real.

Chapter 5: The Pink Bicycle

On Saturday morning, Joseph rolled the Tacoma halfway out of the garage and set the parking brake. He had a tire rotation planned, followed by a trip to the hardware store for drywall compound. A seam above the upstairs hallway door had cracked during the winter, and Khloe had been asking if the house was going to split in two. He had assured her that houses complained about weather the way knees did.

She was unconvinced.

“If your knee can complain, why doesn’t it talk?” she asked, standing beside her bicycle.

“It does. Every morning.”

“What does it say?”

“That I should have listened to my mother.”

She laughed and circled the driveway on her pink Huffy. The bike was slightly too small. Streamers trembled from the handlebars, and a white plastic basket held Captain Buttons, whose ears flapped in the breeze. Sarah had helped choose it shortly before her illness grew worse. When Khloe complained that the seat was uncomfortable, Joseph offered to buy a larger bicycle. She refused. The old one still felt like a thing her mother had touched.

Joseph understood that better than she knew.

He laid his tools on a folded towel and loosened the first wheel. Across the street, Mr. Henderson pushed a mower through orderly lines of grass. He raised a hand. Joseph raised the wrench in return.

Mary Gable came out with pruning shears and paused near her roses. “Bigger bike would be safer,” she called.

“I’ve mentioned it.”

“She’s a Miller. I expect mention doesn’t do much.”

Joseph glanced at his daughter. “It does less than you think.”

Khloe coasted to a stop. “I’m right here.”

“We noticed,” Mary said.

Joseph checked the tire tread. There was still plenty of life in it. The truck had carried them through three winters, thousands of school pickups, and a road trip to Sarah’s sister in Ohio. He could have replaced it with a newer model, but he liked knowing how every unfamiliar sound had started and whether it mattered. Something that could be understood and repaired seemed worth keeping.

“Watch this, Dad!”

Khloe pedaled in a small circle, rising off the seat. Her laughter carried down the driveway. He looked up just long enough to see her attempt a turn that was too tight for the bike’s small wheels.

“Easy on the edge,” he called. “Stay on our side.”

She waved to show she had heard him. That was her mistake. Her eyes followed her waving hand rather than the curve of the pavement.

The bicycle crossed the invisible boundary between the properties.

One pedal caught against the side of Trent’s parked BMW with a long, scraping sound. The bike tilted. Khloe landed on her hands and knees, and the basket bounced across the driveway. Captain Buttons tumbled onto the asphalt.

Joseph dropped the tire and moved.

He reached her before the front wheel stopped spinning. She had a scraped palm, a red mark on one knee, and a face so startled that she had not yet decided whether to cry.

“Look at me,” he said gently. “Did you hit your head?”