Page 88 of The Chain House

“Yes,” the boy said, rolling his eyes. “James taught me it’s never too late to make friends. He taught me courage. And that family doesn’t always have to be your family.”

“Who can be your family then if not your family?” she asked.

“Regular people,” he said without looking up. “Like you. Like Mr. Mosby.”

“Who is Mr. Mosby?”

“He owns the used bookstore across the street from our apartment.”

“Is that where you’ve … read all these books?”

“Yes. He lets me take them home. I hide them under my pillow.”

“Why do you hide them?”

“Because Mom doesn’t like Black people.”

“Is Mr. Mosby Black?”

“Yes. And Dad says reading is for sissies.”

Beth watched him work the puzzle, the scar so prominent across his face she wanted to cry. “Can we talk about how you got that scar?” He shook his head, kept working. She said, “Did your mom and dad do that to you? Did they hurt you?”

He shrugged, said, “Holden was often disillusioned.”

Beth asked, “Do you think you are?”

“Are what?”

“Disillusioned?”

“No.”

“Do you think you’re a teenager?”

“Is Holden Caulfield a teenager?” he asked with sarcasm.

“In the book,” she said. “Yes, he is.”

“Then yes,” he said. And then, “Do you have more puzzles at your house?”

“Yes … many more.”

“Do you have heat in the winter?”

“Yes.”

“And air in the summer?”

“Yes.”

“Does your house have rats?”

“No, honey, it doesn’t.”

“Are there monsters in the mirrors?”

She wiped her eyes, said, “No. No monsters.”