LIZ STAYED IN the basement until past midnight, though as fatigue overtook her, she was chagrined to look around and realize that her efforts had, if anything, made the room look worse. She’d been trying to sort items into broad categories—dishware, sports equipment, holiday decorations—and she’d partially succeeded, while also eliminating already-scarce floor space. Plus, she’d encountered at least a dozen spiders, not all of them dead. She’d deal with the mess later, she thought, and she flicked off three light switches and climbed the steps to the kitchen. She didn’t, until it was too late, realize that Lydia and Ham Ryan were kissing avidly by the stove. They noticed her at the same time she noticed them, and they sprang apart, Lydia saying in an accusatory tone, “What the hell?”

“Sorry,” Liz said. “I was in the basement.”

“Hi, Liz,” Ham said.

Lydia scowled. “Doing what?”

Oh, to be twenty-three, Liz thought, to make out in that way that left your lips swollen and your skin blotchy. Not that Lydia was by any means an innocent, but still—something about her kissing her new boyfriend in their parents’ kitchen while everyone else in the house was asleep made Liz wistful.

“I was trying to sort through some junk, and now I’m going up to bed,” Liz said. “Hi, Ham.”

“I read some of your articles online,” Ham said. “The one about Saudi Arabia was fascinating.”

“You don’t need to butter her up,” Lydia said.

Ham laughed. “You think because you don’t care what happens in the Middle East, no one else should?” Looking at Liz, he said, “How long were you over there?”

“Ten days,” Liz said. “And thank you.”

“Don’t bother hitting on her,” Lydia said. “She has some married boyfriend she thinks none of us know about.”

Ham grinned at Liz—his good nature almost made Lydia’s alarming statement seem like no big deal—and then he leaned in and kissed Lydia’s nose. He said, “At the risk of encouraging you, your jealousy is kind of cute.”