"It's the pink one," I said. "You said you liked the pink one. Remember? In the car. And it's got a case, it's in the bag, and a screen protector, and the man at the store said his cousin has type one and he says it's — Juni? What's the matter?"
She wasn't smiling. Her face had gone very still and very serious, the way it went when she was doing math in her head for a bolus, the way it went when Abeyta was explaining something new in the little exam room in Boise. She looked at the box. Then she looked across the table at her brother.
Kellan said, "Juni." Very low. Just her name. And he shook his head, a small shake, once.
She looked back at the box.
"Do you not like it?" I said. My voice came out higher than I wanted. "We can exchange it, honey, if you want a different color, it's fine, Tavish said —"
"I like it," she said.
"Then what —"
She put both hands on the box. And she pushed it. Not hard. She slid it off her plate and across the placemat and over the edge of the placemat onto the bare wood of the table, and she kept pushing it, reaching, until her arm was all the way out and she was half out of her chair, and the box was sitting in front of her brother, right between his plate and his water glass.
"Give this one to him," she said.
Nobody said anything. The furnace clicked on. Somewhere outside, a car went by with its stereo going, the bass thumping and fading.
"Juni," Kellan said. "Don't."
"I'm not," she said. "I'm not doing anything. I just don't want it. He should have it."