The next thing I know, we’re walking together along Route 27. It’s late afternoon, not yet what passes for rush hour in Brookdale. At six in the evening, 27 becomes a phalanx of slow-moving vehicles as commuters from Baltimore wend their ways home toward Cantersville. But for now, there’s just the occasional car or big rig. We stick to the shoulder.

I jam my hands into my pockets because otherwise I’m afraid I’ll try to hold hers. That’s the sort of stupid thing I would do.

As we walk, she tells me about herself, about her family. This comes with no questions from me—I never ask people about their families or their pasts. Because then they would ask me about mine.

This is what I learn without breaking out the deerstalker: Her dad works “in finance,” and Aneesa doesn’t really understand exactly what he does. Her mom is an editor for a math journal at Johns Hopkins. “I don’t think she understands what she does.”

They moved here because her dad’s company opened a satellite office in Lowe County, and her father was chosen to be in charge. “They’re all about ‘capitalizing on rural growth and white flight,’” she quotes from an overheard conversation. “Translation: All the white people are moving away from all the black and brown people, and we’re being made to follow the money.”

“I didn’t flee from anywhere,” I say lamely. “I’ve lived here my whole life.”

“What do your parents do?”

“Mom’s a translation secretary.”

“What’s that?”

“She speaks Spanish. And this guy who owns a company down in Finn’s Landing does business all over Latin America, but he can’t speak Spanish.”

She clucks her tongue. “Who does business where they speak Spanish and doesn’t learn Spanish?”

“Well, yeah. Mom says money buys convenience.”

“I guess so.”

“So Mom handles all the phone calls and correspondence and stuff.”

“That’s sort of cool. What about your dad?”

“Divorce. A while back.” I shrug as noncommittally as I know how. “He’s not really around.”

“Sorry I asked.”

There it is. So smooth. So adult. How did she do that? Sorry I asked. One moment, I’m faking a too-casual shrug to show that it doesn’t bother me that she’s asked about my father, covering for the fact that—surprise—it actually does bother me. Then, with a simple Sorry I asked, I’m no longer bothered. How did she do that?

“It’s okay. Everyone gets divorced, right? A lot of people, at least. No big.”

“Do you miss him?”

Pine. The hoot of a train’s whistle. I shake my head to clear away the memories and to answer her question.

Then she asks the one question I never, ever ask anyone. No matter how curious I might be, no matter how relevant the answer might be, I never ask it, and she does, like it’s nothing at all:

“Any brothers or sisters?”