He nodded, deep in thought. Then he opened his suitcase and began unpacking while I watched from the doorway. He seemed perfectly comfortable, but I knew this was routine for him, having stayed in other foster homes. He removed his clothes from his suitcase and folded them neatly before placing them in the dresser. Socks and underwear in the top drawer, T-shirts in the middle, pants in the bottom drawer. He hung up a tweed jacket and collared dress shirts.

“Wyatt,” I said, “we’ll go get supper ready. You’re welcome to stay in here, or you can come into the living room and watch TV if you like.”

He looked distressed, so I sat on the edge of the bed. He sat next to me. His head leaned forward, and he was on the verge of tears. He was not acting like a teenager, that was certain, and I assumed he was emotionally immature, and guarded, maybe closer to a ten-year-old boy. I placed my hand on his back and rubbed lightly.

“I’ll go in the other room,” Ernest said from the doorway.

I nodded, and as he left, I asked Wyatt if there was anything I could do to make him feel comfortable.

He shook his head, but I couldn’t see his face under his hair.

“You don’t have to talk,” I told him. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. This is your room. It’s a safe place, I promise you.”

I rubbed his back for a moment longer while he sat there, leaning forward. Then I got up and started for the door. That was when he spoke up: “I’m okay,” he said.

I turned and looked at him, but he was still sitting forward. “That’s good,” I said.

“I can do impersonations,” he said. “Maybe I’ll do one later.”

“Impersonations?”

“I can do a Frenchman, monsieur,” he said. “I can do Pee-wee Herman.”

I WON’T DENY HE REMINDED me of Ray-Ray, even from the beginning. I was surprised by the feeling in my stomach, a pang that made me shiver, a taste of sweetness in my mouth despite not having eaten anything. I had a strange feeling all evening that Wyatt possessed a number of familiar traits. I wondered if it was simply because they were nearly the same age.

In the kitchen I made supper. I put some chicken in the Crock-Pot, opened a can of green beans. I turned on the stove and poured the green beans into a saucepan. The kitchen was a place for thinking, where my time was my own. I thought about what an odd coincidence it was that Wyatt said he could do impersonations of a Frenchman and Pee-wee Herman. I remembered how Ray-Ray was such a quiet little boy until he started junior high, and his personality blossomed. He was happiest and the most animated around us at home, doing his impersonations, singing, talking about music and movies he loved. He tried to make us laugh, and he succeeded. He was very different from Sonja and Edgar, who were both more reserved, more introverted. As Ray-Ray got older, he tried to be tough around his friends, often sarcastic, too, even at home.

Cooking supper, it was still strange to think that the whole family might never be together again. It was such a struggle to get Edgar back home—the last time we had seen him was at his intervention the previous spring. In his absence I felt weak with worry. I prayed to the Great Spirit silently. I prayed for comfort for Edgar and Sonja right there in the kitchen. I prayed for Ernest. I prayed for Wyatt to feel comfortable in our home.

In the living room, Ernest was trying to figure out the TV remote. This was part of his confusion, forgetting what buttons change from cable to video, what channels play sports or twenty-four-hour news. He could remember his birth date but couldn’t remember how the remote worked. He remembered who was president when he was a kid but forgot the name of his hometown.

“What channel’s the local news?” he asked, pointing the remote at the TV.

“Time for supper,” I told him.

“Well,” he said. “I’m wondering about the Thunder game tonight. Maybe the boy and I can watch it together.”

“Let’s go eat,” I told him.

He followed me to the table, where we found Wyatt already seated. He didn’t look up as we entered but only stared at the table, as if deep in thought. I wondered whether he was sad or afraid or just shy.

Ernest helped me set the table, and when I brought the food out, I had to let him know it was fine to go ahead and help himself. We ate quietly for a while, our forks clinking against our plates. I asked Wyatt if he liked school.

“I love it,” he said without looking up, and I wondered whether he was being sarcastic.

“Really?” I said. “That’s rare, I think. Liking school? What grade are you in?”

“Ninth.”

“Lots of friends?”

Now he looked up, and I saw something change in his face. Maybe it was my interest in talking to him, or maybe it was the thought of someone he knew, but he smiled a little and set his fork down. And Ernest, too, set his fork down. When I turned to look at Ernest, I recognized a look I hadn’t seen in so long; it was a look of confusion and wonder.

“I love people,” he said, in a voice not quite his own. “I’m in drama at school. I like to act. My drama teacher is a really cool dude. He rides a motorcycle. I’d love to get a motorcycle someday.”

Ernest stabbed his chicken with his fork. I wondered whether he would react to Wyatt’s motorcycle comment, but he didn’t appear to be listening. “Motorcycles can be dangerous,” I told him. “Our son had one for a while, but we never liked it. Get a car when you’re old enough to drive.”