Saturday
On Saturday Pia walked over to Bo's house with a small bag. In the bag she had: a pack of biscuits, a paperback she had liked recently, and her sketch pad, in case Bo wanted to draw.
Bo's mum opened the door. Her eyes were tired but kind. She hugged Pia, briefly, the way grown-ups do when they are grateful for something a child is doing.
"He's in his room. Go on up."
Pia went up.
Bo was sitting on his bed in his pyjamas. He looked thinner than three days ago. His face was a particular kind of still.
"Hi," said Pia, from the doorway.
"Hi."
She came in. She sat on the floor — the chair was covered in his school stuff. She did not say anything at first. She got out the biscuits and put them on the bed. She got out the paperback and put it on the bed. She got out the sketch pad and put it on the floor.
"I thought you could pick. We could read or draw or eat biscuits. Or I could just sit here. Whatever you want."
Bo looked at her. His face did not change.
"Can we just sit?"
"Yes."
So they sat.
For about ten minutes, neither of them said anything. Bo stared at his blanket. Pia drew a small flower on her sketch pad, very slowly. The cat — Bo's cat, named Hilda — came in, considered them, and lay down on Bo's foot.
After about twenty minutes, Bo said: "I don't know how to talk about it."
"That's okay."
"I'm angry."
"Yeah."
"I'm angry at both of them. I'm angry at my