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Daniel heads inside the house, and I close the door behind us.

“I’m going to grab the picture. It’s in my room,” he says.

I follow him to it, stepping inside a room that doesn’t feel like a bedroom. At least not Daniel’s room. It’s nothing like him. It’s neat and sterile, like a hospital. The only sign that he belongs here is the bedside table. I spot the book Annie continually rants about. The one by Jules Verne.

I inch closer, picking it up.

“Don’t touch that,” he says, lunging toward me and ripping it out of my hands.

I stare back, wide-eyed. “Relax. It’s just a book.”

His expression softens, looking at the book and then back at me. “It’s not just a book.”

“What do you mean?”

He chews at his lip as if he’s trying to decipher the situation and figure out his next move. “I don’t know how to explain it.” After holding it so tightly, he glances at me, and then he does the most unexpected thing. He carefully places it in my hands.

“You don’t have to show it to me if you don’t want to,” I say. I’m not exactly sure what I stumbled onto, but all of a sudden, this is too personal. I know he’s about to show me something I can guarantee no one else has seen.

“I want to.” He sits down on the bed. He’s nervous, feet twitching. “You already know more about me than anyone else. You might as well know about this too.”

I sit next to him and open the book. It might be a Jules Verne story, but in every inch of empty space and margin are words written by Daniel. Poems. Statements. Pain.

“When I was little, I found this book with my mom’s name written in the front. I thought if I read it, I’d understand her more, but I didn’t make it past the first chapter. I was mad and tried to ruin it by ripping some of the pages out. Then I started writing in it—to vandalize it, I guess—and I’ve never stopped.”

These words and poems are so sad. It’s all the emotions he bottles up inside himself and never lets out.

“You probably think it’s weird,” he says.

“No.” I close the book and hand it back. “If anything, I think it helps me understand you a little more.”

Daniel isn’t scary. He’s hurt. He’s wounded and doesn’t know how to heal. I realize more than ever how important it is for us to find his father. He needs to belong and feel wanted. His father could be the missing piece.

“Is that a good thing?” he asks, looking away as if he’s afraid to see my reaction.

“Yeah.” I feel the urge to wrap him in a hug, hold him together, but I resist.

In this moment I know I can’t go through with my plan anymore. I don’t want Daniel to scare Annie off. I think I should let Annie get to know him. She wasn’t wrong to like him in the first place. Maybe they could be good together after all, or maybe they would end up being friends. Then they both wouldn’t be so lonely.

He clears his throat and stands up. “The picture is over here,” he says. He walks over to the desk on the other side of the room and picks it up. “It got a little wet.”

The picture is a lot more damaged than I was expecting, but the girl is still visible.

A man knocks on the door and steps into the room. “Hey kids, I need to finish something for work,” he says. He brings the phone back to his ear. “Sorry, Steve. Where were we?” He pulls out the chair at the desk and sits down.

Daniel nods toward the door, and I take the hint to leave. We wade in to the living room, and I sit down on the tan sofa in the middle of the room. Daniel’s eyes wander around, clearly deciding whether or not he wants to sit beside me. There’s another chair across the room, but slowly he sits down next to me.

“I thought that was your room,” I say.

“Nothing in this house is mine.” His tone is cold, making my heart hurt even more for him.

“Laura and her husband seem so nice. I bet if you gave them—”

“They only took me in because they felt like they had to,” he says with a hardened expression. “Once I turn eighteen, I’m out of here.”

I don’t know if I believe that. I’m sure they care about him, but that’s not what he wants to hear right now. Arguing about it would only make him feel like his feelings aren’t valid, and I don’t want to do that. Telling someone they’re okay when they feel hurt doesn’t solve anything. It just pushes them away.

I lean back on the couch and stare at the picture. “Can you tell me what you know about your mom?”