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Toby’s.
    I didn’t know what else to say to him. It seemed crazy yet perfectly sensible that he should be in my house at this moment. I could continue with “How are you?” but knew I hated the question myself.
    Then I thought of Mr. Kaufman, and the anger rose in me. Keeping my voice steady, trying to make it sound more curious than vengeful, I asked, “What’s going on with your dad?”
    “They’ve moved him out of ICU, but there’s still no change,” he said, rubbing one of his feet where the sock had soaked through. I had a quick flashback of David and me sitting on that bench when we were kids, pulling snow-encrusted mittens and hats away from our limbs and onto the floor.
    “He could wake up any day, they say,” continued David. “They say my being there might help that happen, so that’s why I’m not coming home.” This came out all practiced and mechanical, like it was a line he’d been using a lot. He said it like there was no reason why I wouldn’t want his dad to be okay.
    Nana came out of the kitchen and beckoned us over to the table.
    “Is Masher here?” said David. “I came home for some clothes, and my grandfather said you’d taken him.”
    “Yeah. Mr. Mita wasn’t—”
    “Thank you,” David said, cutting me off. Hearing David’s voice in the house must have woken Masher up, because, on cue, he came bursting down the stairs.
    David fell to his knees to hug his dog, his face in the thick ring of fur around his neck, and they stayed that way for what seemed like minutes. I put two very large spoonfuls of sugar in my coffee, slowly.
    When he finally let go of Masher, he was fighting back tears. Nana handed him a box of Kleenex—she had installed one in every room—and he turned his back to us, cleaning himself up.
    “He seems happy. Thank you,” said David when he swiveled back around. “Do you mind watching him for a little while longer?”
    Something about David’s face right then, so fragile and temporary, felt familiar. Had I seen it before on him? Or maybe, on myself? My guard fell, and a voice inside me nudged, David is not his father. You don’t have to hate him, too.
    “No, I don’t mind,” I said. “He hogs the covers, but I can deal with that.”
    David burst out with a little laugh, just a snort really, and smiled a bit. He crawled back into the chair and took his first sip of coffee.
    “You’ve been home all this week? Out of school?” said David.
    “Yeah. I’m going back tomorrow.” Just saying it made me feel that much more like I would actually do it. “What about you?”
    “Nah, I’m failing two of my classes anyway. I’m done.”
    The nerd in me felt alarmed, and I couldn’t help saying, “Done? Like, dropping out?”
    David just shrugged and looked at me, like he was daring me to ask more, challenging me to try to talk him out of it.
    “Well, you’re lucky then,” was all I said, picking at a thumbnail. “Because you’ll miss that whole stupid senior talent show thing.”
    David snorted again and nodded, and then we went silent. But the air felt a little thinner, a little warmer now. After a few more moments, he slid back down to the floor, and Masher, who’d had his head resting in David’s lap, stretched out in front of him.
    “I’ve got some stuff to do, to get ready for tomorrow,” I said, getting up and taking two steps toward the stairs. He didn’t look up to say good-bye.
    “Stay as long as you want, David,” said Nana from the kitchen doorway. “Do you want a sandwich?”
    I didn’t wait to hear his answer, because suddenly being back in my room, without having to make conversation with David Kaufman, was all I wanted in life.
    There was a picture of the two of us, David and me, in a family photo album somewhere. We’re on my front lawn. It’s my first day of third grade and his first day of fourth grade. I’m grinning wide while holding a Snoopy lunch box, and he’s standing with his hands on his hips, so over the