Back to their phone conversation. Pete knew of no child named Mason, so the call caught him off guard. Mason’s mother, Cindy, whom Pete immediately recognized from her voice as a particular kind of San Antonio woman — a blond, ponytailed, lacquered — wanted to invite Neil to sleep over with Mason on Friday night. There were some calls across the house, some quick checking of schedules, and the thing was arranged. Just like that. Not until it was all over did Pete cajole Neil away from his computer long enough to answer some rudimentary questions about Mason, who was, by definition, remarkable simply for being Neil’s friend.

It was not Pete’s fault that he had no idea how to communicate with his son. Not really. On his best day, Neil was impossible to talk to, and this conversation turned out to be even more difficult than most. Neil had been a withdrawn kid when they’d lived in San Diego, and Pete had hoped their move to San Antonio two years ago would give him a chance to open up, to reinvent his life, but it hadn’t. He remained the same. Quiet without being moody. Withdrawn without being sullen. Alone without being lonely.

What little attention Neil had for his father evaporated the minute my name was mentioned, and he instantly retreated to the far reaches of his bed, tucked his receding chin into his too-large T-shirt, and mostly nodded yes or shook his head no or shrugged that he didn’t know. Pete — who was tall, broad in the shoulders, fit from a regular and moderately punishing gym routine — felt like a menacing ogre, and he couldn’t find it within himself to press on with the interrogation. He finally opted for a strategic retreat rather than continue to embarrass his son or do anything that might somehow endanger the sleepover.