I SWING OPEN THE DOOR—
—and let out a long, low groan.
“Well,” says John Henry Knox. “Good morning to you, too, Kennedy.”
He leans to the side to see Mikaela.
“Hello, Mikaela.”
Then he leans a little bit more to the side, a hopeful look on his face.
“Dan hasn’t shown yet,” I tell him.
John Henry Knox stands up straight—and sighs. His shoulders sink on the exhale. He looks like he’s had a long, hard night.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he tells us. “I made a topographic map of my backyard. I taught myself conversational Portuguese. I read four graphic novels. Then I calculated how many chopsticks we’d need in order to build a ladder to the moon. And this morning, I made two batches of croissants. Also a frittata.”
“A frittata?” I ask.
“Yes. The key is to use full-fat dairy, and to take the pan out of the oven just before the eggs are completely cooked.”
I take a good long look at John Henry Knox.
At the dark bags beneath his tired eyes.
At the smear of egg yolk stuck to the back of his wrist.
And even though I know I might regret it, even though it’ll probably only take five minutes for the kid to start to annoy me, I take a step back, open the door a little wider, and tell John Henry Knox, “Come on in.”