I hear Caleb’s clock ticking on the wall beside the window, and I’m frozen, staring at the closed door. It’s noon, and I’m starving, and the hunger is doing something to my mind, making me imagine things that do not matter. That are not true.

The room, then and now, was always stocked with some sort of food. As if descending two flights of steps was too great a trek to undertake for a quick snack. I check those shelves now and find a bag of peanuts, like from a ball game, and a box of Chex Mix, which is mostly empty.

Both go into the garbage can under his desk.

There, behind a stack of books, I see his familiar stash: mini-boxes from a cereal variety pack, still in the plastic, that he would tip into his mouth like a one-bite snack. Three of eight boxes remain.

My fingers tremble, maybe from the hunger. I pick up the Pops, my favorite. He used to save me this one from the variety pack, even though it was his favorite, too.

The Pops were always mine, and my heart breaks, seeing the box here, still waiting. I open the top, tip the box over and pour the cereal into my mouth. The coating is syrupy sweet; the resulting thirst, endless. I can see the bottom of the bag inside. There will never be enough. Never another of these left behind.

Caleb also used to bring extra snacks to school on test days, saying he needed it for his brain, to focus. He convinced his teachers that a bag of chips was the difference between success and failure, and somehow got away with it. The only place they didn’t let it slide was the library, so he had to get a little more creative there.

The gap under the doorway is dark, and I hear no footsteps below. I pull the door open, and the creak catches me off guard. A warmer gust of air filters in from below. Keeping my hands on the walls, like Caleb would do, I make my way down the steps, pausing at the closed bedroom door on the second floor. I place my ear to Mia’s door, but hear no one inside. I knock faintly and call, “Mia?” but get no response.

My hand grabs the knob, and I turn it just slightly, just so I can feel that it isn’t locked, that I could open it if I wanted to.

“Eve?” I call.

I hear only the ticking clock, from below this time. The grandfather clock in the living room, an old narrow tower that no longer chimes, just makes a dull buzzing that you only hear if you’re standing right beside it, like the sound mechanism is broken.

It’s Mia, I think, who’s been through Caleb’s things. It’s Mia who doesn’t think I should be here trespassing, who deserves to keep pieces of her brother for herself. It’s Mia who wants to know who he was, this brother she can now never have growing up.

I push her door open, holding my breath. I only open it wide enough to see inside, to stick my face in the gap and confirm that she isn’t there. I’m not sure what I expected to see: Caleb’s things scattered around the floor maybe, in a tribute to him; her own room slowly being packed away. But it’s exactly as I remember it: the walls are a pale lavender and there are more stuffed unicorns than I can count, and her floor is scattered with toys, a beanbag chair, paperback books, a necklace-making kit.

I guess I expected the grief to seep into everything, turning her as morose and sullen as I am. To cause her to give up her friends and activities and focus only on this thing that is missing.

There are no boxes leaning against her walls yet. I think they’re mostly leaving things as-is while the house is on the market, so prospective buyers can imagine their own children in these very rooms, taking up the spaces, growing and thriving.

Only Caleb’s room must go. Back to an attic storage area. A library. A bunker. Nobody wants to see a room that belongs to a ghost.

I close her door, creep down the remaining steps, and call, “Hello?”

The ticking is louder, and I jump when the ice maker kicks in, dropping fresh cubes into a compartment in the freezer.

I’ve never been in the kitchen alone, I realize. I’ve been here with Caleb. I’ve been here with Mia. I’ve been here with Eve, with Sean. The room looks barren and older without them. The laminate more yellowed and chipping at the edges, everything showing its age. I run my finger along the seam of the counter edge as I circle the room, debating lunch. The pantry door squeaks when I pull it open, but I remember Caleb’s words: Really slim pickings here.

There’s bread and peanut butter, but I hate peanut butter. There’s cereal, but it’s unopened so far, and I think this must belong to Mia, and she wouldn’t want me having it. Anyway, I’m no longer sure if I’m entitled to their food. No, I’m sure that I’m not.

I peer out the side window, and see Eve’s car is still there, in the long, narrow driveway that leads to their garage around back. Which means she and Mia are probably out nearby. I pull open the drawer beside the fridge, looking for a pen and paper, so I can leave a note. But it’s empty. I check the rest. There’s the familiar jangle of utensils, some cooking supplies, some spare batteries. But at least half of the drawers are already cleaned out. As if Eve, like me, has started with the parts hidden from the naked eye first. Carving it out from the inside, until all that remains is the shell.

I decide to just go. There’s a sandwich shop about a mile away, off the exit ramp. I can be there and back within thirty minutes. I can even eat on the way here. The front door is unlocked, so I figure they must’ve just stepped out for a moment.

When I step outside, Mia freezes at the base of the steps. She’s crouched over with a piece of chalk, her hands stained pink and green. In front of her are a series of boxes she’s drawn, all outlined in chalk, like for hopscotch.

I take a single step toward her down the steps, and she looks back at the sidewalk, dragging the chalk in a new line.

“Hi, Mia,” I try, but get nothing. Her face is hidden by the long hair hanging over her shoulder, blocking her face.

“I’m going for lunch. Are you here alone?”

She stops then, looks over her shoulder, and makes eye contact firmly and briefly. “I’m not allowed to talk to you,” she says quietly, then goes back to the drawing.

Like a punch to the gut. When I recover, I step carefully around her. “Where’s your mom?” I ask.

After a pause, she answers, “In the garage,” without looking up.

“Okay,” I say, pausing beside her, my shadow falling over her game. “If she asks, I went to get lunch. I’ll be right back.”

There’s silence as I walk to my car, but I don’t hear the sound of chalk on the sidewalk anymore. I can feel Mia’s eyes on me as I walk away.

When I return, the front yard is empty, and all that’s remaining from my ham sandwich is the wrapper and excess lettuce. The car is still in the driveway, and I decide to throw the wrapper out in the garbage around back before coming inside. It seems somehow offensive to return with trash, evidence that I must eat to stay alive, all reminders that I am here and Caleb is not.

I have to walk down the driveway between their house and the neighbor’s to get to the garbage cans in the enclosed area, pressed to the siding around back. I pull out the recycling, cringing at the sound of the wheels on concrete, before I can reach the regular trash. I raise the lid, tossing my trash, but catch sight of a pile of red placemats, cookbooks, and magnets—the guts of the kitchen, dumped and forgotten. I leave my trash on top, then ease the lid closed, stepping off the concrete square at the back corner of their house.

The garage door opens behind the house, and Mia darts out, Eve following behind with a machine hooked up to a hose and wired to an outlet inside the garage. We had our house pressure-washed over the summer, so I know this is what Eve is about to do. Getting the house ready to show, to put on the market. I slip around the corner before she notices me standing there.

I let myself back in their front door, which is still unlocked, when I hear the pressure washer start up, the stream of water hitting the siding.

But I feel someone inside, even before I can hear it. Or maybe one sense gives way to the other. Either way, I just know.

And then I hear something upstairs. Nothing distinct, just movement. I ascend the first flight and pause at the landing, listening, thinking Mia made it back inside before me. But then I hear it again, a thud, footsteps, but they’re not coming from Mia’s room. They’re up the last flight, behind the blue door, which isn’t latched but mostly closed, so I can’t see who’s behind it.

I assume it’s Mia, that she’s going through his things now that I’m gone, but I don’t want to spook her. I want her to look at me. I want to tell her I’m sorry about Caleb. So I tiptoe up the steps, avoiding the creak, and angle my face in the open doorway.

A body moves by in a blur—too big, too fast—and I jump back, surprised.

I must’ve made a noise, or a gasp, because whoever’s on the other side of the door pauses as well.

“Mia?” a deep voice calls. Two syllables, and I already know who it is, and my fear turns to anger as I’m throwing open the door, stomping inside.

Max steps back, his eyes widening, and he starts to speak. But not before I see what he’s done. The books are all knocked over on the shelves. The drawers are half open. The backpack is tipped over, contents strewn across the carpet. He’s rummaged through the open box; half the items are back out on the floor.

“What the hell are you doing!” I yell. I don’t even care if Mia or Eve hears me. I’m so furious I can’t stop it.

Max holds out his hands and winces. “Please, Jessa,” he’s saying, but I don’t understand what he’s asking.

A hiccup gets caught in my throat, and I feel tears burning my eyes as I look at the shelves. “What did you do?”

He runs a hand down his face. “I’m looking for something,” he says, and he looks at me, really looks at me, his eyes locking with mine for the first time in forever. In months. “Please keep your voice down.” He looks over my shoulder, down the hallway. The noise of the pressure washer below continues.

But then my eyes go blurry, Max goes blurry, and I feel the hot tears overflow, and I look away, so angry that I’m crying. “This isn’t yours. Nothing here belongs to you. Get. Out.”

And I must be pushing him, pushing him out, back to the steps, because his hands are on my upper arms, and he’s pleading with me again, even as he’s backing out of the room. “It’s mine,” he says, the words finally registering.

“What’s yours?” Certainly not this room. Certainly not these things. Certainly not the memories.

“What I’m looking for. It’s not Caleb’s. It’s mine.”

I stop moving, wondering what it is: shirts that I didn’t look at closely enough; notes from school that I dumped in a box. “What are you looking for, Max?”

He doesn’t answer at first. He looks over his shoulder. Over mine. I see his throat move as he swallows, but he won’t look me in the eye. “Money,” he says. And it’s so faint that I’m leaning closer without meaning to, just to check whether I’ve heard him correctly.

I shake my head. “There’s no money here.” I’ve been through the desk drawers, the pockets of his pants that he left on the floor. His wallet is gone, along with the rest of him. “If you lent him money, he probably had it on him. I think you’re going to have to forgive that debt. Seeing as he can’t possibly pay you back.” I think of salt water and ocean currents, sand and sea—an endless expanse, an immeasurable depth.

“I didn’t lend it to him,” he says.

I blink slowly, try to understand what he’s saying, though he doesn’t seem to want to spell it out.

“How much money?” I ask quietly, in case the question wants to disappear. In case he’d prefer not to answer, and I can pretend not to notice.

“Six hundred,” he says. “And nine.”

“You think he took six hundred dollars from you?” I say what he’s implying, since he won’t.

“I don’t know.”

“When?”

“A while ago.” He shakes his head. “A few weeks before.”

“You think he took six hundred dollars—”

“—And nine.”

“Six hundred and nine dollars, and you didn’t ask him?”

“I wasn’t sure. I mean, I’m pretty sure. He was the only one in there. He’s the only one who knows where I keep it.”

There are so many reasons why this is impractical. First, Caleb didn’t need the money. The reason he could afford private school, I learned, was because his father had set up a trust in his name, in his will. A lawyer was in charge of the account, but the money was his, and he received a monthly stipend on top of bigger items he’d sometimes get approval for, like school tuition. He didn’t have to worry about affording college, like Max. He didn’t need the scholarship, or a job. But none of those things mattered as much as what I said. “Caleb wouldn’t steal from you. You’re his best friend.”

He narrows his eyes. “And best friends never take each other’s things, right?”

The heat rises to my face, I can’t stop it.

He brushes past me, his anger focused on me instead of Caleb.

He searches the shelves, the boxes. Kicks the garbage can, reaches his hand into the empty boxes of food. Moves the leftover hangers. It’s a vortex. A storm. I picture a structure being torn metal from metal, limb from limb.

“Stop,” I yell, looking at what he’s doing to the room.

But he doesn’t hear me. Or he doesn’t want to. He runs his fingers between the mattress and box spring. Pushes it completely off, with a great thud.

He stops and slowly turns around.

I must’ve yelled again.

My hands are over my ears, and I slam my eyes shut from the roaring in my head.

He pries my hands off, gently. His mouth is saying he’s sorry, and he is, and so am I. He pulls me to his chest and I wrap my arms around his rib cage. I pull him so close it hurts.

“I’m sorry, Jessa,” he says once more. I feel the shudder in his chest, and I know he’s crying.

He leaves me there, frozen in this room. He doesn’t look up as he walks across the lawn, right past Eve and Mia, who don’t even notice him. He doesn’t even bother opening the gate. He launches himself over the fence, and he runs. He doesn’t stop.