In the proceedings. His mother looked as if she were about to offer up a prelude of small talk, then clamping down on the words. By himself, his father had that effect. Yoked to Greta, whose somewhat round features had the ability to somehow appear menacing and angular, it was like a drawn and leveled gun.

“We have to be somewhere, so I think…”

“Yes. Of course. Well…” His mother searched for words. “…I think…I like to think…that we share a desire to do what’s best for Brandon…”

“Brandon was clear about what he wanted, to us.” His father’s eyes, after he spoke, briefly, nearly undetectably, flicked in Greta’s direction. Was that acceptable, Schatzie?” Brandon, having been at their house many times, found himself trying not to laugh. He didn’t know why. It was like the joking between him and Justin at a recent funeral for the latest elderly uncle (halted with a single glare from his aunt) — the reflex of a young brain unable to grasp the enormity of what was unfolding around him. This isn’t funny, he thought. This isn’t funny at all.