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I stopped locking Jamie’s bedroom. Yesterday, I found him sitting on the floor outside my door with Duck in his lap. He waited there for over an hour without knocking.

Simon’s door has remained unlocked for eight nights. Every morning, he wakes before I reach him. He gets dressed, makes the bed and waits beside it until I open the door. Yesterday, I left him there until after nine. When I entered, he called me a controlling bitch and followed me downstairs to make breakfast.

Oliver still hears the lock turn every night.

Dinner is ready when Jamie decides the letter is acceptable. He wipes the brush, blows on the bead and turns Simon’s wrist in both hands.

“There.” Jamie holds it beside the repaired bracelet on my wrist as though he expects the colors to match. “Now it looks right.”

Simon examines the S. “It looks exactly the fucking same.”

Jamie’s face tightens.

“It’s better,” Simon adds before Jamie can start again. “Can I have my hand back now?”

Jamie releases him and begins packing the paint into its little case. Simon carries the pan to the table.

Oliver waits in the living room.

His door is always open during the day now, but he still stops on the threshold until I tell him to come out, as if the pause belongs to him. I let him keep a few distinctions.

He sits in the chair beside the bookcase with one ankle resting over the opposite knee. His glasses have slipped low while he reads, and the green bracelet lies neatly over his wrist. He hasn’t opened the book I left on the table for him.

When I call dinner, he brings his own book to the table and leaves mine closed beside his plate. “You chose something else.”

Oliver closes the book in his hand around one finger. “You gave me access to an entire shelf. I assumed that implied selection.”

“It implied variety.” I pick up the book I chose and place it on top of his. “You still read what I give you.”

He waits until I take my seat before switching books.

Simon sets Jamie’s plate down hard enough to make the fork jump.

“Was that necessary?” Oliver asks. He opens the book to the marked page.

“Yes,” Simon and Jamie say together.

Oliver looks over the top of his glasses. Simon takes his chair, and Jamie shifts closer to me.

Nobody touches the food until I pick up my fork.

The chicken is perfect. I eat two bites before speaking. “Useful.”

Simon cuts into his own piece.

Jamie leans into my shoulder. “I fixed his bracelet.”

“I watched you.” I take another bite. “Did you return the paint?”

“Everything is where it belongs.”

The office closet has become one of his responsibilities. He retrieves Oliver’s books, Simon’s old recipe notebook and anything else I decide they’ve earned. He checks every item when it goes back, locks the door and returns the key to his throat. He’s never taken out the phones.

Oliver looks at the key less often than he did the first week, but he still looks.

“Would you like something from the closet?” I ask.

Oliver cuts his chicken without looking at me. “No.”