“Have a good holiday.”

“You, too,” I said, as Rogerson pulled in to the far side of the parking lot. “Merry Christmas, Matthew.” He smiled, then reached forward and took my hand, squeezing it tightly between the warm wool of his mittens. They felt scratchy yet comfortable, like the kind Cass and I both had as kids, clipped to our jackets so we wouldn't lose them. “Merry Christmas,” he said. There was something so nice about standing there with him, under all those blinking lights, his mittens closed tightly over my fingers. I felt safe with him, strangely, with this person I hardly knewsafer than I'd felt in a long time, as if some part of me that had been churned up and crazy had finally come to a stop. We couldn't have stood there like that for more than five seconds before Rogerson pulled up in front of the window and beeped the horn. “Well,” I said, and he dropped my hand. “There's my ride.”

“Right,” Matthew said. “See you later.” We walked out the door together, and Rogerson leaned over to unlock my door, keeping his eyes on Matthew as I climbed inside. “Who's that?” he asked as I put my seat belt on. “He teaches my class,” I said. “Where've you been?” He just shook his head as he put the car in gear, gunning across the parking lot. “Dave said he could get us a good deal on this ounce, but the guy never showed. Waited for an hour.”

“Oh, man,” I said. “You must have been really mad.” He didn't say anything, instead looking past me out my window to the sidewalk beside us. When I turned my head, I saw Matthew walking, his backpack over both shoulders and hands in his pockets, head ducked against the falling sleet. I was about to change the subject, but something felt strange to me, an unsteady feeling like before lightning strikes. Rogerson still had his eyes on Matthew, even as he disappeared around a corner, and I thought again of the picture I held in my lap, the irritation in his eyes, the stark trees, with barely a sun at all in the sky behind him. He didn't say a word the whole way home. But when we pulled up in front of my mailbox, he cut the engine and just sat there, looking straight ahead. I slid my fingers down to my door handle, telling myself he was just in a bad mood, not my fault. Dave had made him wait, and then he'd seenor had he?Matthew holding my hand. I could slip out, he'd go burn off steam, and then later everything would be okay. It would. If I could just “So,” he said suddenly, and I felt that crackling electricity again, a whooshing in my ears, “what's going on with you and that guy, Caitlin?”

“Nothing,” I said, and my own voice sounded strange to me, like it was weightless, drifting up, up, and away. “I saw you.” The words were clipped and low. “Don't lie to me.”

“I'm not lying,” I said quickly, and I hated the way I sounded, so weak and pleading. “I just wished him a Merry Christmas and he shook my hand...”

“Don't lie to me!” he yelled, and in the small space of the car it was so loud, hurting my ears. “I'm not,” I whispered. “Rogerson, please. It's nothing.” And then I reached out and touched his arm. He was coiled and taut, a mousetrap set to spring at the slightest touch. As soon as my fingers brushed his sleeve, his fist was in motion, springing out at me and catching my jaw, knocking me backward so hard the door handle dug into my right side, twisting the skin. I felt like I couldn't shut my mouth, but even so I was still trying to explain. “Rogerson,” I said. “I”

“Shut up, Caitlin,” he said. “But” He slapped me hard, across the other cheek, and it felt like part of my face was shattering into tiny pieces. I covered my face with my hands, stretching my fingers to cover the span from my forehead to my chin, as if without them I would fall apart altogether. “This isn't my fault,” he said in a low voice, as I tasted blood in my mouth. “It isn't, Caitlin. You know what you did.“ I didn't say anything. I didn't think I could take another blow. Instead, I closed my eyes and thought of trivia, again: questions and answers, the solidness and safety of facts. When the biggest secret about Rogerson was the limitless stretch of what he knew. What instrument do sailors use to measure time? I told myself to breathe. A chronometer. Where in Italy did pizza originate? My cheek was still burning, all the way up to my temple. Naples. I turned my head, resting my sore cheek against the cold glass of the window, and looked at my house. We had a fat plastic Santa standing by the front steps, white lights strung in the tree by the walk, and a row of tiny reindeer mounted on the roof of the garage. Upstairs, I could see my father sitting in his chair in the square of one window, reading the paper, just like he had in a million nights of my childhood. I closed my eyes, willing him somehow to look through the dark car windows and rush out and save me from Rogerson, and from myself. But he didn't. Instead, my father did what he always did: He folded the paper, picked up the remote, moving across channel after channel, waiting for me and Cassto come home.

When I came inside twenty minutes later my mother was taking a casserole out of the oven. ”Oh, my goodness!“ she said, her eyes widening. She plunked it down on the counter and started across the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel decorated with tiny Christmas trees. ”What happened to you, Caitlin?“ ”I fell,“ I said quickly, even as she leaned in close, brushing my hair off my forehead. In Rogerson's rearview mirror, after we'd smoked a bowl, it hadn't looked that bad: just a bit red, puffy in places. ”Fell?“ she said. ”Jack, come in here!“ ”Mom, I'm fine.” My father appeared in the kitchen doorway, the line in his forehead already creased and deep. “There was just some ice by the mailbox and I slipped.”