“And we do that by . . . what? Going back to Big Club?”

He considered this. “No. We just wait a little bit, then start over fresh. No looming boyfriends. No toasters. Just us.”

“Okay,” I said.

A car drove past and someone hollered in our direction, distracting us both momentarily. Another beat, and Theo said, “About how long?”

“Should we wait?” He nodded. “I don’t know. A day or two?”

His face fell. “You think?”

“You,” I said, pointing at him, “are the expert on this demarcation thing. You tell me.”

I watched as he thought for a minute, really considering it. Then he said, “Tomorrow. New day, new start.”

“Okay,” I repeated. “It’s a date.”

He smiled, just as the front door of Sand Dollars opened to reveal Ivy, in pajama bottoms and a tank top, her hair matted on one side. “Theo!” she barked. “Did I not ask for fresh-squeezed orange juice?”

“Fridge door, blue pitcher,” he replied, ever cheerful. She huffed, then shut the door again. I raised my eyebrows and he said, “Vitamin C. She’s a bear until she has it.”

“Clearly.” I reached down, cranking my engine, and he stepped back. “So I’ll see you . . . tomorrow?”

“Count on it.”

I’d smiled, and he went up the drive and into the house. I’d looked at the clock on my console. It was not even noon. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure I’d ever have enough demarcation to figure out how all this had happened. What had I done?

Now, shaking this off—or trying to—I turned my attention back to Benji. “It’s summer and you’re at the beach, though. There’s a million things to do here.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Like what?”

I’d forgotten who I was dealing with: of course I’d be expected to expand on this. “Well,” I said slowly, “there’s, um, swimming.”

“I’m only allowed to be in the sun two hours a day,” he informed me, voice flat. “And I have to be accompanied by a responsible adult.”

“Oh.” I glanced back at the kitchen, wondering where said adult actually was at that moment. “Well, what about riding a bike around or something? I bet we could—”

“Because of my inner-ear problems, I have balance issues.” He picked up the cards again and shuffled them. “I have to stay away from self-propelled wheeled activities.”

Zero for two. “Well, you could read.”

“That’s all I’ve been doing. That and practicing my balloon twisting.”

“Balloon twisting?” I asked.

He plucked a slim booklet from between a ring and the rabbit and held it out to me. “Making animals. It’s part of the kit.”

Twist Art: Easy Balloon Sculpting for All Ages! proclaimed the cover, which featured a bald guy with a handlebar moustache, a bright yellow balloon giraffe in one hand and an air pump in the other. I flipped through the pages, which provided step-by-step instructions for everything from beginner-level wiener dogs to incredibly elaborate rose bouquets, complete with stems and thorns. “Wow,” I said. “This is really cool.”

“It’s noisy, though.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Noisy?”

“When they pop. It could give a person a nervous breakdown.” Again, this sounded like a direct quote. “So I had to stop and just do the card tricks for a while.”

“Where is your dad, anyway?” I asked him.

“Upstairs,” he replied, cutting the deck once, twice. Then he drew out a few cards, fanning them between his fingers. “He’s on deadline.”

“Deadline?” I repeated.

“It means he’s grumpy. And stressed.” He nodded at the cards. “Pick another one.”

I reached for one on the far right. This time, he didn’t stop me. Seven of spades.

“Okay.” He folded the cards back into a stack, then closed his eyes, concentrating. “Your card is . . . the ten of diamonds.”

I glanced at it. “You’re right!”

“I am?”

I had no idea why I was lying to him, especially since the deception would be more than clear as soon as he looked at what was left in his hand. But there was something so sad about a little kid at this huge table, bored and alone. The least I could do was let him think he could do magic, if only for a little while.

“I’m going upstairs for a minute,” I said, sliding the card in my pocket. “Keep practicing, okay?”

He nodded, shuffling the cards again, and I started up the stairs. It had been years since I’d been in this house, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever made it to the second floor. Still, something about the climb felt familiar, as did turning to the left, not right, to reach the master bedroom.

Inside, I found my father sitting at a wooden desk by an open window. He had his back to me, but even without my seeing his face, the stress of being on deadline—whatever that really meant—was apparent. One hand was at his left temple, rubbing hard as if trying to polish it to gold, while the other tapped a pencil against the desk staccato-style, rat-a-tat-tat. Additionally, there were papers spread out all around him: on the desk, the floor, the bed. So much paper, so little order. It made me want to clean up, quick. I was almost to the door when he said, “Is it twelve fifteen? Because it better be.”