"Deal," Zora said, mouth full of pasta.
Marcus said, "Okay." Then, because the room could hold a little more, "Thanks."
Zora lifted her water glass as if toasting. "To phones that stay on."
Yvette almost laughed. "To asking before midnight."
Marcus tapped his glass against Zora's. "To sisters who tell the truth when adults invent reasons."
Yvette's smile flickered, pained and real. "I deserve that."
"You do," Marcus said. "And you also made dinner. Both things can be true."
They finished the pasta. Yvette washed; Marcus dried; Zora put leftovers in containers with the solemnity of a person entrusted with future lunches. Outside, the city buzzed. Inside, the pendant lights made everything look warmer than the heat deserved.
In September, on the anniversary of nothing official, Marcus opened his locker and found a sticky note in Zora's handwriting, slipped through the vent somehow with the help of a fifth-grader friend who had a brother in Marcus's hallway: Your phone still on? Mine too. Good. Under it she had drawn a fox that looked like the one on her case, slightly crooked, entirely hers.