“It’s not sustainable.”

“He spent all that time to get there, just to quit? He threw it away. Of course I worry.”

“He needs predictability, something steady. He’s alone too much.”

Are they talking about Jake? I put my hand higher on the wall and rise up on my tiptoes.

“You kept telling him he could do whatever he wanted.”

“What was I supposed to say? You can’t get by day after day being like that, shy, introverted . . . so . . .”

What’s she saying? I can’t make it out.

“Needs to get out of his own head, move on.”

“He left the lab. That was his decision. He never should have started down that path in the first place. The thing is . . .”

Something here I can’t make out.

“Yes, yes. I know he’s smart. I know. But it doesn’t mean he had to go that route.”

“. . . A job he can keep. Hold down.”

Left the lab? So they are talking about Jake? What do they mean? Jake’s still working there. It’s getting harder to decipher the words. If I can just get a bit higher, closer.

The paint can tips and I crash against the wall. The voices stop. I freeze.

For a second, I think I hear someone move behind me. I shouldn’t be down here. I shouldn’t be listening. I turn to look back toward the stairs, but there’s no one there. Just the shelves full of boxes, the dim light coming from upstairs. I don’t hear the voices anymore, not at all. It’s quiet. I’m alone.

An awful feeling of claustrophobia settles over me. What if someone were to close the trapdoor covering the stairs? I would be stuck down here. It would be dark. I’m not sure what I would do. I stand up, not wanting to think about it further, rubbing the knee I banged into the wall.

On my way back up the stairs I notice a lock and latch on the trapdoor, the one that hides the stairs when it’s closed. The latch is screwed into the wall beside the stairs, but the lock’s on the bottom of the trapdoor. You’d think it would be on the top side, so they could lock it from the top. The trapdoor can be closed and opened from either side, either pushed up if you’re in the basement, or pulled up if you’re on the landing. But it can be locked only from below.

—Do we know the official cause of death?

—Bled out, from the puncture wounds.

—Awful.

—Bled for hours, we think. Quite a bit of blood.

—It must have been terrible to stumble across.

—Yes, I imagine it was. Horrible. Something you’d never forget.

The dining room is empty when I return from the basement. The table has been cleared except for my dessert plate.

I poke my head into the kitchen. The dirty plates are stacked and rinsed, but not washed. The sink is filled with grayish water. The faucet drips. Drips.

“Jake?” I call. Where is he? Where is everyone? Maybe Jake is taking out the table scraps to the compost in the shed.

I spot the stairs to the second floor. Soft green carpet on the treads. Wood-paneled walls. More photographs. A lot are of the same elderly couple. They’re all old photographs, none of Jake when he was younger.

Jake told me he would show me the upper floor after dinner, so why not go check it out now? I head straight to the top, where there’s a window. I look out, but it’s too dark to see outside.

On my left is a door with a small stylized J hanging from it. Jake’s old bedroom. I walk in. I sit down on Jake’s bed and look around. Lots of books. Four full cases. Candles on top of each bookcase. The bed is soft. The blanket on top is what I would expect in an old farmhouse—knitted and homemade. It’s a small bed for such a tall guy, just a single. I put my hands out beside me, palms down, and bob up and down, like an apple dropped in water. The springs squeak a bit, showing their age and years of use. Old springs. Old house.

I stand. I walk past a heavily used, comfy-looking blue chair, over to the desk in front of a window. There’s not much on the desk. Some pens, pencils in a mug. A brown teapot. A few books. A pair of large silver scissors. I slide open the top drawer of the desk. There’s the usual desk stuff in there—paper clips, notepads. There’s also a brown envelope. It has Us printed on the outside. It looks like Jake’s handwriting. I can’t just leave it. I pick it up, open it.

Inside are photos. I probably shouldn’t be doing this. It’s not really my business. I flip through them. There are about twenty or thirty. They’re all close-up shots. Body parts. Knees. Elbows. Fingers. Lots of toes. Some lips and teeth, gums. A few extreme close-ups, just hair and skin, pimples maybe. I can’t tell if they’re all the same person or not. I put them back in the envelope.

I’ve never seen photos like that. Are they some sort of art thing? Like for a show, or display, or some installation? Jake has mentioned to me that he’s into photography and that the only activity he did outside of school was art lessons. He said he has a really nice camera that he saved up for.

There are lots of photos around the room, too, scenes, some of flowers and trees, and people. I don’t recognize any of the faces. The only one of Jake I’ve seen in the house is that one downstairs by the fire, the one he claimed was him when he was a kid. But it wasn’t. I’m sure it wasn’t. That means I’ve never seen a photo of Jake. He’s shy, I know, but still.

I pick up a framed photo from a shelf. A blond girl. She has a blue bandanna headband, tied in the front. His high school girlfriend? She’d been deeply in love with him, or so Jake claimed, and the relationship had never quite meant the same thing to him as it had to her. I bring the photo up to my face, almost touching my nose. But Jake had said she was a brunette and tall. This woman is blond, like me, and short. Who is she?

In the background I notice someone else. It’s a man, not Jake. He’s looking at the girl in the photo. He’s connected to the woman. He’s close and is looking at her. Did Jake take the photo?

I jump as a hand touches my shoulder.

It’s not Jake. It’s his father. “You startled me,” I say.

“Sorry, I thought you were in here with Jake.”

I put the photo back on the shelf. It falls to the floor. I bend down and pick it up.

When I turn back to Jake’s dad, he’s grinning. He has a second Band-Aid on his forehead, above the original one.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, I just wasn’t sure if you were all right. You were trembling.”

“I’m fine. I’m a little cold, I guess. I was waiting for Jake. I hadn’t seen his room yet and just thought . . . Was I really trembling?”

“From the back, it looked like it—just a little.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about. I wasn’t shaking. How could I be? Am I cold? Maybe I am. I have been cold since before we sat to eat.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I am. I’m fine.” He’s right. I look down and notice my hand is trembling slightly. I bring my hands together behind me.

“He used to spend lots of time in here. We’re slowly converting it into a guest room,” Jake’s father says. “We never felt right putting our guests in here when it was still so reminiscent of a bookworm high schooler. Jake always liked his books and stories. And writing in his diaries. It was a comfort for him. He could work through things that way.”

“That’s nice. I’ve noticed he still likes to write. He spends a lot of time writing.”

“That’s how he makes sense of the world.”

I feel something as he says this, compassion for Jake, affection.

“It’s quiet in here,” I say, “at the back of the house. It would be good for writing.”

“Yes, and great for sleeping, too. But Jake, as you probably know, Jake was never a good sleeper. You guys are welcome to stay the night. We hoped you would. You don’t need to rush off. I told Jake. We want you to stay. We have plenty of food for the morning. Do you drink coffee?”

“Well, thanks, I should probably leave the decision up to Jake. I do love coffee. But Jake has to work in the morning.”

“Does he?” his father says, a puzzled look on his face. “Anyhow, it would be great if you stayed. Even just one night. And we want you to know, we’re very grateful that you’re here. For what you’re doing.”

I tuck some stray hairs behind my ear. What am I doing? I’m not sure I understand. “It’s nice to be here, and nice to meet you.”

“It’s good for Jake, all of this. You’ve been good for him. It’s been so long since . . . But, I just think this is good for him, finally. We’re hopeful.”

“He always talks about the farm.”

“He was excited for you to see it. We’ve been looking forward to having you here for so long. We were starting to think he’d never bring you home, after all this time.”

“Yeah,” is all I can think to say. “I know.” After all what time?

Jake’s dad checks behind him and then takes a step closer to me. He’s close enough that I could reach out and touch him. “She’s not crazy, you know. You should know that. I’m sorry about tonight.”