and had Brandon been able to see his mother’s thoughts, he would have seen a pudgy German woman thrown out of the front door, beaten unrecognizably.

“Excuse me, Greta, was there something you wanted to share?”

She shook her head. Their eyes met and locked, and Greta found herself off guard. She was not accustomed to resistance.

“No, thank you. I think we’re done for now.”

His mother’s face retained its flush. She looked at Brandon.

“Brandon…how are you feeling? Would you like to…to go tonight?” She fought any show of emotion; any hint of defeat that might be filed away, recorded, held up as a victory. “I can help you get…your things together.” She got up, and walked over to him, and embraced him tightly.

If this isn’t what you want…if you ever find that this isn’t what you want…”

Brandon felt the tears begin, and was glad that his mother’s turtleneck soaked them up.