Page 87 of My Family

Griff looks proud too, softer than usual as he watches how happy we are. He's a good man.

Santos calls in the order from her phone, reading off a list that Griff compiled on the back of his schedule printout. The total is staggering, enough food for a small banquet, and I suspect Griff is paying for at least part of this out of his own pocket, though I'll never ask and he'll never say.

The food arrives thirty-seven minutes later. A delivery kid in a Honda Civic pulls into the parking lot, and Patterson meets him downstairs, returning with six plastic bags so heavy they've stretched the handles into white filaments.

The smell hits the hallway—soy sauce, ginger, hot oil—and we all cheer when he gets there.

We spread it out everywhere. The desk becomes a serving station, white containers lined up with their cardboard lids flipped back, steam rising in fragrant columns. General Tso's, orange chicken, beef with broccoli, lo mein in a container the size of a small bucket, fried rice studded with egg and peas, egg rolls stacked like golden logs, dumplings glistening with oil, wonton soup in foam cups, spring rolls, crab rangoon. More food than eight people should reasonably consume, which means it's exactly the right amount for eight boys.

"This is the greatest night of my life," Jack announces through a mouthful of General Tso's. "I'm not being dramatic. I'm being factual. This chicken is better than freedom."

"No, it's the fried rice," Cedric says, eyes closed, chopsticks frozen midair. "The fried rice is doing something to me spiritually."

"I told you," Santana says, jabbing a dumpling toward Cedric. "The universe provides. Scorpio season. I called it."

Liam is eating like a happy little puppy. He's got a container of dumplings in his lap and a spring roll in his hand, and he's alternating between them. That's all I care about.

"Thank you, sir," I say.

If Harry were here, he'd definitely say I'm licking his boots. But Liam follows.

"Yeah, thank you, sir."

"Thanks, Griff," Jack joins in, and then everybody mutters their thanks.

Griff accepts it with a single nod. Then he clears his throat, which tells me he's as close to tears as he gets.

"Eat up," Griff says, composure restored. "Then back to your rooms. Lights out at ten. No exceptions."

He pauses, his eyes sweeping the room in that way that makes every person feel individually addressed.

"And gentlemen, tomorrow, whatever happens, you represent this program. You represent yourselves. Win or lose, you walk in there with your heads up, and you walk out the same way. That's all I ask."

Nobody makes a joke. Nobody deflects. We just nod, all of us.

"Out," Griff says. "All of you. Ten o'clock."

Chapter 30. Ethan

Our room door closes.

Liam stands by the window, pulling the curtain aside to look at the parking lot below, and in the yellow spill of the streetlamp, his profile is sharp and beautiful.

"Come here," I say.

He doesn't move immediately. His fingers grip the curtain, knuckles pale. His leg bounces once, twice, then he drops the curtain and crosses the room, stopping in front of me with his chin tipped up and his blue eyes too wide.

"I can't breathe right," he says. "My chest is doing the thing."

I take his hands. They're cold, his fingers restless even in my grip, tapping rhythms against my palms. I press them flat against my chest, one over the other, holding them there until his fingers stop moving and he can feel the steady beat underneath.

"Match me," I say. "In through your nose. Four counts again."

He breathes in. Shaky, shallow.

"Again. Slower. Feel my ribs move."

He tries again. Better this time, deeper, his eyes locked on mine like I'm a fixed point in a spinning room. I count for him. One, two, three, four. Hold. Release.