Sylvia said that I slept until two thirty the following afternoon. That wasn’t entirely true, because I woke around noon and debated getting up—then thought better of it and went back to sleep again. When I finally stumbled into the bathroom, I felt as though I had molted into a new person, refreshed and alert. If spring hadn’t always been my favorite season (I like fall), it was for today. Dad and Sylvia didn’t ask anything of me. There was a slice of quiche waiting for me in the fridge, some fruit salad, some ham. Dad was watching an NBA play-off game, Sylvia was altering a skirt, and the house had a blissful, contented sound—the low hum of the sewing machine, the sports commentator’s monologue. It all just made me happy and totally absorbed in the deep red of the roses on our coffee table. I was thinking about the best time to call Patrick to thank him when the phone rang. It was Ryan. “Hi,”
