Unlike the discrete walkie-talkie, the baby monitor had to be tethered to a wall socket for power. I pictured the device tucked inside the exercise basket outside the unfinished guest room, and prayed to Mara’s saints that the little red light was hidden from view.

“Hey,” Ryan said. His voice was far away so I pressed the corrugated plastic against my ear.

“Hey,” Mara replied.

“Good evening, Ms. Dorothy,” he said to the cat.

She replied in the kitten's voice. “Well, hello there, Mr. Ryan!” I winced at Mara's easy effervescence and the couple's playful banter. Her silly impersonation of the cat evoked our connection the morning she played dress-up for me. Jealousy burned in my chest like the coil of an electric stove; I longed to strangle Ryan Brosh with the same passion that longed to touch Mara.

“She looks more healthy every day,” he said. “You must be a good mommy.”

A bell jangled; an audible indication he was petting the cat. “It's nice having a furry animal around when bad things happen.”

“Bad things?” Mara asked.

“Your parents. I heard about the accident.”

“Oh.”

“If you ever need somebody to lean on...” This kid was one rotten cliché after another.

“You're sweet,” she said. “I'm just glad I learned about it here. The Parkers are super supportive.”

I sensed Ryan's internal debate: I don't want Mara to think I'm obsessive. How long have I been down here? Livy'll think I'm pooping. Maybe just a minute longer? I should really go back upstairs... But walking away from Mara was like breaking your ankle to escape a bear trap. Ryan wasn't the only kid battling urges, my knuckles were white around the overhead pipe.

“How are-- and Whit?”

Mara and Ryan were moving deeper into the guest room and away from my bug. I twisted the volume knob to catch Mara's reply, but she sounded like she was talking into a plastic jug. “--ood, I --uess.”

Dangit, darnit, son of a bitch!

“Those boys-- perverts,” Ryan said.

Mara laughed. “Why?”

“Whenever we --ang out, they're always talkin--”

Static. I shook the monitor.

“--if they had you all to themselves.”

“--doesn't sound like them. What did--”

“--really shouldn't say. --words I would never say in front of a girl. Let's just say-- be normal if they were-- high school.”

I let go of the pipe, dropped the monitor to the cardboard control panel, and sat up so quickly that I bashed my head on the pipe I just released. Ryan was a liar!

But I couldn't tell Mara the truth or she’d know I was spying.

“On-- night of the party, James-- bragging-- read your diary. --guess-- pretty desperate.”

Ryan crossed the line. I couldn’t fix the damage, but I could make sure he never did it again.

I wiggled through the tunnel of pink insulation. Just as my hand touched the bedroom hatch, my mother's voice broke loud and clear over the dining-room walkie.

“That was Norma on the phone.”

Norma was Mrs. Greenfield. My palm froze on the smooth wood as I considered my options.

“I suppose you told her,” Dad replied.

“She thinks we need a restraining order.”

I twirled around on all fours, crawled back to the cardboard box, and grabbed the headset. I could exact my revenge later.

“Against three old ladies?” Dad said. “Sounds a little drastic.”

“Norma overreacts, but how do you think we should handle this?”

“For now, we keep her inside and stick to the original plan. If the demented Golden Girls come back, we call the police and let them handle it.”

“They're despicable,” Mom said. “Born-again psychos.”

“Now who's overreacting?”

“You didn't see the film reel.”

“We don't know they were the same women.”

I held the monitor to my left ear and the walkie to my right. Despite my efforts to separate the conversations in my mind, the words merged and mingled into a disorienting poem like watching TV with the radio on.

“--didn't know you could draw.” Ryan's voice was still choppy.

Mara replied, “I like to doodle.”

“Something's wrong, David,” Mom said in my right ear.

“Beth?” Dad replied. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know... I can't describe it.”

Ryan said, “--totally rad,” and shuffled noisily through a pile of paper. “Why-- drawing-- over and over again?”

“I just like it, silly,” Mara replied.

“What a weirdo. In a good way of course.”

“Honey?” Dad prodded Mom. “Did something happen?”

“I took her to the mall after we found out about her parents... thought it would be a nice distraction...”

“That was sweet.”

“No,” she said. “It wasn't.”

“--just like basketball!” Mara said in my other ear. “Don't you-- the same shot over and-- to get it right?”

“Good point,” Ryan replied. “--not a weirdo!”

Mom continued. “Every store we went to--every boutique and jewelry kiosk--I kept asking her if I could buy her anything. Over and over I pictured her in a certain dress, a special necklace, the perfect pair of high-heels... and she had to talk me out of it every time.”

“You just wanted to make her feel better--”

“If she didn't stop me, I would have bought the mall.”

Ryan spoke again in my left ear. “Maybe I can give you a ride in my car sometime.”

“Aren't you-- Livy now?” asked Mara.

“Where do you think the urges came from?” asked Dad.

“Doesn't mean-- can't hang together,” Ryan replied.

Livy’s voice joined the fray. “There you are, sneaky boy.”

“Hey there, cutie,” Ryan replied. “Just coming back up! Wanna chill with us, Mara?”

“I only know one thing for certain...” Mom’s voice trailed off.

“I should stay downstairs,” said Mara. “I need to change Dorothy's litter box.”

“What is it, hon?” asked Dad.

“Your loss, weirdo!” said Ryan.

“Those women...” said Mom, “they'll never stop.”