Chapter 8: House Rules

Vaughn's house sat on a quiet street in Lincoln Park, behind a black iron gate.

The garden floor had its own door, and when he opened it, I stopped on the step.

Someone had made up the smaller bedroom in a hurry.

There was a new bed with a rocket-ship duvet, still creased from the package.

There was a lamp shaped like a moon.

There was a shelf with twelve children's books on it.

The price stickers were still on them.

"I didn't know what he likes," Vaughn said from the doorway.

He had his hands in his pockets, and he did not meet my eyes.

"I went to a store at five this morning and asked the clerk for what a five-year-old reads."

"It's perfect," Sam said, and bounced onto the bed.

"It's a lot," I said.

"I know."

"He'll get used to things that aren't going to last."

Vaughn finally looked at me.

"I'd like them to last," he said.

I did not answer.

I went to the kitchen, and I found a pasta pot and a jar of sauce, and I began to cook.

He sat on a stool at the island and watched me do it.

He kept opening his mouth and closing it again.

Sam sat across from him eating buttered noodles with his fingers and asking questions.

"What's your job?"

"I build buildings."

"Like Legos?"

"Bigger Legos."

"Do you have a boss?"

"I used to have a father who was my boss."

"Where is he?"

"He died when I was twenty-six."

Sam considered this.

"Mama's grandma died too. She's in the lake."

"The lake?"

"Her ashes," I said. "She loved it there."

Vaughn nodded.

"Can I see the lake?" he said, to Sam, not to me.

"When I'm better," said Sam. "I have to get your blood first."

Vaughn's jaw worked.

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