"Wow," I said. "That's quite a story."

He nodded somberly, just as he had earlier in the car. "Yeah," he said. "I know."

By the time we left an hour later, all the bacon was gone and I was so full I thought I would bust. Back in the car I reached for my seat belt, pulling it across me, then stopped just short of the buckle as Owen slid it in for me, then grabbed the hammer again. His hands were right at my waist as he tapped its center, his head ducked down by my shoulder. I looked at his dark hair, the sprinkle of freckles by his ear, those long lashes, but then he was already done, pulling away.

All the way into town, I watched Rolly in the side mirror as he put on his padding for work: first the big chest piece, then the tubes on his arms and legs, gradually growing more substantial and less recognizable in front of my eyes. He put on the helmet just as we pulled up to the strip mall where EmPOWerment! was located.

"Thanks for the ride," he said, opening the door and easing himself down to the ground. The padding on his legs was so thick he had to take short, halting steps, his arms held out to his sides. "I'll call you later."

"Sounds good," Owen told him.

As we drove home, the scenery blurring past, I thought back to that first day, and how strange it had been to find myself with him. Now it was almost normal. Outside, the neighborhood was quiet, a few sprinklers going, a man in his robe padding out down the driveway to pick up his paper, and I found myself remembering what Rolly had said earlier about the perfect moment. This seemed like one, suddenly, the right time to say something to Owen. To thank him, maybe, or just to let him know how much his friendship had meant to me in the last couple of weeks. But just as I was getting up the nerve to say something, he beat me to it.

"So. Have you listened to any of the CDs I burned for you?"

"Yeah," I said as we turned onto my street. "I actually started the protest song one yesterday."

"And?"

"Fell asleep," I told him. He winced. "But I was really tired. I'll try it again and let you know."

"No rush," he said, pulling up in front of my house. "These things take time."

"No kidding. You gave me a lot to listen to."

"Ten CDs," he replied, "is not a lot. It's barely a smattering."

"Owen. It's, like, a hundred and forty songs. Minimum."

"If you want a real education," he continued, ignoring this, "you can't just sit and wait for the music to come to you. You have to go to the music."

"Are you suggesting some sort of pilgrimage?" I was joking. Judging by the serious look on his face, however, he was not. "You could call it that," he said.

"Uh-oh," I said, sitting back in my seat. "What would you call it?"

"Going to a club to see a band," he replied. "A good band. Live. Next weekend."

The first thing that popped into my mind was a question: Are you asking me out? The second, following rapidly behind, was that if I actually asked it, he'd answer in full truth, and I was not sure I wanted that. If he said yes, it would be… what? Great. And terrifying. If he said no, I'd feel like an idiot.

"A good band," I repeated instead. "Good according to who?"

"To me, of course."

"Oh."

He raised an eyebrow. "And to others, too," he said. "It's Rolly's cousin's band."

"Are they—"

"No. Not techno," he answered flatly. "They're more kind of a loose rock, original songs, somewhat jokey but solidly alternative."

"Wow," I said. "That's quite a description."

"The description means nothing. It's the music that counts," he said. "And the music, you will like. Trust me."

"We'll see," I said, and he smiled. "So when is this loose-rock-original-songs-somewhat-jokey-but-solidly-alternative band playing?"

"Saturday night," he replied. "It's an all-ages show, at Bendo. There's an opener, so they'll go on around nine."

"Okay."

"Okay, as in you'll go?"

"Yeah."

"Cool."

I smiled as, behind him in my house, I saw Whitney appear at the top of the stairs. She had on her pajamas and was yawning, one hand to her mouth, as she started down to the foyer, her shadow stretching across the wall beside her. Once at the bottom of the stairs, she crossed into the dining room, then bent down over her flowerpots in the front window. After a moment, she reached out, pressing down the soil in one of them, then turned another so the opposite side faced the light. Then she sat back on her heels, her hands in her lap, and studied them.

I glanced at Owen, who was watching her as well, and wondered what this looked like to him. From the outside, it had to seem so different from what it really was. Move on to the next house and you'd see something else, another glimpse, another story. This one wasn't even mine to tell, but for whatever reason, I found myself wanting to do it anyway.

"They're herbs," I said to Owen. "She just planted them yesterday. They're, um, part of her therapy."

He nodded. "You said she was sick. What's wrong? If you don't mind my asking."

"She has an eating disorder," I told him.

"Oh."

"She's a lot better than she was," I added. And this was true. In fact, I'd watched her eat two pieces of pizza the night before. Much later than I ate, and only after blotting off any semblance of grease, and then cutting them into many small pieces. But she did eat them, so that had to count for something. "I mean, when we first found out, it was really bad. She was in the hospital for a while last year."