The Cover Story

Ottilie had already told three different versions of why Foster missed their parents' anniversary dinner, and each one grew slightly more elaborate than the last. First it was a shift he couldn't get out of. Then it became a group project due the next morning. By the time their mother asked a third time, over dishes, Ottilie had run out of plausible categories of excuse.

"He's not answering his phone," her mother said, scraping a plate harder than the plate required. "That's not like him, even when he's busy."

Ottilie knew exactly why Foster wasn't answering. He'd told her two weeks earlier, swearing her to secrecy in the parking lot after his shift, that he had quietly withdrawn from his first semester of college. He'd failed two classes badly enough that finishing them seemed pointless. He was too ashamed to say so before their parents had already bought him a congratulatory sweatshirt with the university's name across the front. Had he simply told them at the time, Ottilie thought, this dinner might have been difficult instead of merely strange.

"He's probably just stressed about finals," Ottilie said, which was true in a way that wasn't the way her mother would take it.

Her mother set the plate down and looked at her directly, the kind of look Ottilie had learned meant a real question was coming. "You've been weird about him for two weeks. Weird in a specific way, like you're managing something." A pause. "Are you covering for your brother?"

It was the directness of it, more than the question itself, that caught Ottilie off guard. She had prepared for vague suspicion, not a precise diagnosis delivered while drying a serving spoon.

"I promised him," Ottilie said finally. "It's his thing to tell, not mine."

"I'm not asking you to betray him. I'm asking whether my son is in some kind of trouble I should already know about." Her mother's voice had lost its edge, replaced by something closer to plain worry. "If something is actually wrong, Ottilie, keeping his secret isn't the same as being a good sister."

That distinction was the one Ottilie hadn't let herself examine too closely, mostly because examining it meant admitting Foster's silence had started to frighten her a little, not just inconvenience her. What she'd told herself was loyalty had started to look different over the last two weeks. It now looked more like two people quietly agreeing to keep their parents in the dark about something that wasn't going away on its own.

"He's not in danger," Ottilie said carefully. "But it's not finals, and it's not a group project. It's something he needs to tell you himself, and I think he will, if you just — call him again. Tonight. Don't let him send it to voicemail."

Her mother studied her for a long moment, weighing, it seemed, whether to push further or trust the shape of what she'd just been given. Then she picked up her phone from the counter and dialed. Ottilie went back to drying dishes she could no longer pretend to concentrate on, listening for whichever version of her brother's voice would finally answer.