"Okay." Sophie accepted this the way she accepted explanations of lightning, provisionally, with more questions saved for later. "Don't break the card."
"Never."
Rachel kissed her daughter's hair. Jason did not kiss Rachel. They left the room together and parted in the hall without a script: he toward the bedroom that had been theirs, she toward the spare room where his mother's quilt waited, star-patterned, washed thin. Megan lingered on the landing.
"I'm sleeping on Sophie's floor," she said. "Don't argue. I already texted Mom that you're alive. She sent back a paragraph I am not going to read to you."
"Thank you."
"I'm so angry at you I could shake you," Megan said, conversational, almost gentle. "And I still don't want you alone in a guest room feeling cinematic about it. So. If you need water, the cups are where they always are. If you need to tell me he's terrible, don't. I saw his face. He didn't look terrible. He looked like a person. That's worse, probably. Good night, Rach."