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“Silly,” he said.

“So. I have…” I opened the fridge and flicked the kettle on with my free hand. “Cheese.”

“I don’t like cheese.”

Okay.

“Avocado?”

“What?” the boy shrieked.

Right. In the fridge next door, I had snacks—apples, cheese sticks, small pots of organic yoghurt, cereal bars, and vegetable puffs galore. Here? What did these kids even eat for snacks? I couldn’t remember what Jean had bought. The past few hours suddenly felt like years.

“What do you like?” I asked.

Wrong question. Never ask. Offer options. I was setting myself up for mayhem.

“Do you have milk?”

“I do.” I nodded. Phew.

“Phinney likes milk.”

“Good. I do too. Shall we have some milk?”

“Daddy likes tea. He told me.”

“He does like tea. And coffee.”

“No worms.”

“I promise. No worms. Only aliens have worms.”

“Are you an alien?”

Honest question. Four eyes, serious.

I lifted Phinney onto my lap and poured milk into three glasses. He let me, though I braced myself for awell-aimed kick. A wail. But I seemed to be getting away with it.

I nodded at Marmie, took a gulp of milk. He copied me.

Bonding.

Maybe.

What were we doing?

“I think you’re an alien. You talk funny,” Marmie said.

Maybe I was.

“You okay?” Dylan asked, rounding the corner, then just standing there. “Thank you.”

“Stop thanking me. We’re okay.”

“This is not easy.”

“It never is. But it’s all good. Reuben’s running Constance over to her friend’s. You okay with that?”