“I’m worried, Aza. I’m worried you’re losing your connection to reality.”

“I’m not,” I said. “I’m just tired.”

“Tonight, you’re gonna stay up and talk to me.”

“About what?”

“About where you were, what you were doing, who you were doing it with. About your life.”

So I told her. I told her that Daisy and Mychal and I had attended a one-night art show beneath downtown, and that Daisy and I had walked to the end of Pickett’s unfinished tunnel, and I told her about going out to the meadow, and I told her about the jogger’s mouth, about thinking Pickett was maybe down there, about the stench.

“You’re going to tell Davis?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“But not the police?”

“No,” I said. “If I tell the police, and he is dead down there, Davis and Noah’s house won’t even be theirs anymore. It’ll be owned by a tuatara.”

“A tua-what-a?”

“A tuatara. It looks like a lizard, but it isn’t a lizard. Descended from the dinosaurs. They live for like a hundred and fifty years, and Pickett’s will leaves everything to his pet tuatara. The house, the business, everything.”

“The madness of wealth,” my mother mumbled. “Sometimes you think you’re spending money, but all along the money’s spending you.” She glanced down at her cup of tea, and then back up to me. “But only if you worship it. You serve whatever you worship.”

“So we gotta be careful what we worship,” I said. She smiled, then shooed me off to the shower. As I stood underneath the water, I wondered what I’d worship as I got older, and how that would end up bending the arc of my life this way or that. I was still at the beginning. I could still be anybody.

TWENTY-THREE

I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, a Saturday, feeling truly rested, frozen rain plinking against my bedroom window. Indianapolis winters rarely feature the sort of beautiful snow that you can ski and sled in; our usual winter precipitation is a conglomeration called “wintry mix,” involving ice pellets, frozen rain, and wind.

It wasn’t even that cold—maybe thirty-five—but the wind was howling outside. I got up, dressed, ate some cereal, took a pill, and watched a bit of TV with Mom. I spent the morning procrastinating—I’d pull out my phone, start to text him, and then put it away. Then pull it out again, but no. Not yet. It never seemed like the right time. But of course, it never is the right time.

—

I remember after my dad died, for a while, it was both true and not true in my mind. For weeks, really, I could conjure him into being. I’d imagine him walking in, soaked in sweat, having finished mowing the lawn, and he’d try to hug me but I’d squirm out from his arms because even then sweat freaked me out.

Or I’d be in my room, lying on my stomach, reading a book, and I’d look over at the closed door and imagine him opening it, and then he would be in the room with me, and I’d be looking up at him as he knelt down to kiss the top of my head.

And then it became harder to summon him, to smell his smell, to feel him lifting me up. My father died suddenly, but also across the years. He was still dying, really—which meant I guess that he was still living, too.

People always talk like there’s a bright line between imagination and memory, but there isn’t, at least not for me. I remember what I’ve imagined and imagine what I remember.

—

I finally texted Davis just after noon: We need to talk. Can you come over to my house today?

He replied, Nobody’s here to look after Noah. Can you come over here?

I need to talk to you alone, I wrote. I wanted Davis to have the choice whether or not to tell his brother.

I can be there at five thirty.

Thanks. See you then.

—

The day moved agonizingly slowly. I tried reading, texting Daisy, and watching TV, but nothing would make the time speed up. I wasn’t sure whether life would be better frozen in this moment, or on the other side of the moment that was coming.

By four forty-five, I was reading in the living room while Mom paid bills. “Davis is coming over in a little bit,” I told her.

“Okay. I’ve got a couple errands to run. You need anything at the grocery store?”

I shook my head.

“You feeling anxious?”

“Is there any way we can make a deal where I tell you when I have a mental health concern instead of you asking?”

“It’s impossible for me not to worry, baby.”

“I know, but it’s also impossible not to feel the weight of that worry like a boulder on my chest.”

“I’ll try.”

“Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

“I love you, too. So much.”

—

I scrolled through my endless TV options, none of them particularly compelling, until I heard Davis’s knock—soft and unsteady—on the door.

“Hey,” I said, and hugged him.

“Hey,” he said. I motioned to the couch for him to sit down. “How’ve you been?”

“Listen,” I said. “Davis, your dad. I know where the jogger’s mouth is. It’s the mouth of Pogue’s Run, where the company had that unfinished project.”

He winced, then nodded. “You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure,” I said. “I think he might be down there. Daisy and I were there last night, and . . .”

“Did you see him?”

I shook my head. “No. But the run’s mouth, the jogger’s mouth. It makes sense.”