See, what seems to be a million years ago, now, Anna's son brought home his roommate from college for Thanksgiving. He had told them all that Matt was different, whispered hushed through the phone, that he didn't come from anywhere nor have anywhere to return to, and that it had taken days of embarrassing pleading on his part to get Matt to even reluctantly agree to the visit. So Anna had said okay, honey, sounds good, and then she'd hung up the phone and worried with her husband as to what exactly it was that Foggy was bringing home with him. (What it was, was this: A kid, mop-haired and shy, mumbling please and thank you and offering to clean the dishes and jerking with surprise every time her husband clapped him on the shoulder.) (What it was, was this: Anna's third son.) She remembers Foggy telling her about Matt's--disappearance, the first time. She'd kept making an extra serving of dinner and dessert, just in case he returned, and eventually, he had. A bit quieter than before, a bit sadder, but whole. She doesn't remember Foggy telling her about Matt's second disappearance. Her own hands had been gritty with dust, or ash, or whatever it was they called it. She'd watched her husband crumble to pieces between her palms and then she had to open the front door to tell her son that his father was gone, only to find out that her other son was gone, too. And yet. And yet. Her husband is here again, and Matt is-- Matt is sitting at her kitchen table, socked feet tucked up beneath him, Foggy at one shoulder and Karen at the other, and he's saying please and thank you and offering to clean the dishes and it's like no time has passed at all, even though so much of it has. She passes her fingers through his hair as she sets their plates on the table. He doesn't flinch, not anymore. Instead, his body leans into the touch, and remains.