The moment that he had arrived home, I had known. I had known it in an instant, the same way that you would know that you overslept in the mornings, the same way that you would know that the sun was shining, or that it was raining. I knew it without really knowing. Or perhaps the give-away had been the fact that the house—that had been otherwise silent since my encounter with his parents—suddenly felt like it was alive, felt like it was buzzing with energy.
I had had the desire to go downstairs, to meet him at the door, but in order to keep myself from doing so, I had to remind myself of what else was downstairs—the correct term would have been who, but the what was a more accurate description. The thought of having to face his mother, his father, from the beginning again, was a thought
