"You took some good pictures," he said. "You've got an eye. I'll print one for you, if you want. You can come pick it up."
Emma nodded without speaking. She did not look at him. She did not look at anyone.
They drove south on I-25 in the dark. The traffic had thinned and the lights of the Tech Center slid by on the left, glass towers lit floor by floor like ledgers. Adam drove. Natalie sat in the passenger seat with her hands in her lap and Calvin's card between two fingers, and every few minutes she looked in the side mirror, where she could see a slice of Emma in the back seat: the curve of her cheek lit by passing headlights, her forehead resting against the window.
No one turned on the radio. At the Lincoln Avenue exit, Adam cleared his throat as if he were going to say something, and then didn't.
At home, Emma went upstairs without a word. They heard her bedroom door close. Not slam; close, with a small, deliberate click that was somehow louder than a slam would have been.
Adam stood in the kitchen and looked at the refrigerator. It was covered with the ordinary evidence of their life: Emma's orchestra schedule, a magnet from Estes Park, a save-the-date for a cousin's wedding, a school photo from fourth grade in which Emma was missing a canine tooth and grinning like a pirate. He looked at it all for a long time.