Clare puts her hand someplace it probably shouldn’t be. “I’d rather be your mistress.”

　“You’re sixteen, Clare.” I gently remove her hand, and stroke her face.

　“That’s old enough. Ugh, your hands are all wet.” Clare turns on the overhead light and I am startled to see that her face and dress are streaked with blood. I look at my palms and they are sticky and red. “Henry! What’s wrong?”

　“I don’t know.” I lick my right palm and four deep crescent-shaped cuts appear in a row. I laugh. “It’s from my fingernails. When you were driving without the headlights.”

　Clare snaps off the overhead light and we are sitting in the dark again. The cicadas sing with all their might. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

　“Yeah, you did. But usually I feel safe when you’re driving. It’s just—”

　“What?”

　“I was in a car accident when I was a kid, and I don’t like to ride in cars.”

　“Oh—I’m sorry.”

　“‘S okay. Hey, what time is it?”

　“Oh my God.” Clare flips the light on. 12:12. “I’m late. And how can I walk in all bloody like this?” She looks so distraught that I want to laugh.

　“Here.” I rub my left palm across her upper lip and under her nose. “You have a nosebleed.”

　“Okay.” She starts the car, flips on the headlights, and eases back onto the road. “Etta’s going to freak when she sees me.”

　“Etta? What about your parents?”

　“Mama’s probably asleep by now, and it’s Daddy’s poker night.” Clare opens the gate and we pass through.

　“If my kid was out with the car the day after she got her license I would be sitting next to the front door with a stopwatch.” Clare stops the car out of sight of the house.

　“Do we have kids?”

　“Sorry, that’s classified.”

　“I’m gonna apply for that one under the Freedom of Information Act.”

　“Be my guest.” I kiss her carefully, so as not to disturb the faux nosebleed. “Let me know what you find out.” I open the car door. “Good luck with Etta.”

　“Good night.”

　“Night.” I get out and close the door as quietly as possible.