Henry's house is a little further down from mine. A big square house with a front porch, and a window in the roof that Henry said he could see Jupiter from one night. I thought it was in the attic, but Henry's sister said the attic's haunted, and Henry said he saw it from his room. This great tree leaned into the side of the house, pushing it crooked and out of line. The front porch frowned at that.

His dog, Max, wags his butt when we come through the front door. He's a gangly thing with giant floppy ears and eyes that are bright and gold. He likes me more, because he sniffs my feet and puts his head on my lap when I sit down on the living room couch.

“What did you do?” Mrs. Walker asks. His mom makes sandwiches for us from leftover meat. We eat it in the kitchen, because the dining room was for special occasions, and Mrs. Walker liked making sure the dining room stayed pretty. The sandwich meat is tough and slimy on my tongue, and mashing it between my teeth doesn't make it any less chewy, but tastes like pepper and salt and butter, and the bread is tough in places. The lettuce feels sad in my mouth and falls apart like wet paper. The cheese makes me drool a little. “You're late again.”

“I didn't mean it, Momma,” Henry says. His words are careful, because he knows how tired she is. Everyone is a little tired now. “Ms. Lewis thought I laughed at someone.”

Mrs. Walker looks at me.

“It's true,” I say.

She hums, pursing her lips. She holds my face, and her thin fingers are cold and wet against me. “Your head is just right,” she says.

“Momma says the same thing about Henry's head.”

She laughs at that. “Sweet child, I assure you, Henry would lose his head if I didn't make sure it was on right.”

Henry sticks out his tongue. “My head is right! You put it there!”

“No shouting in the house, Henry,” she says between laughs, and goes back to making dinner. “Just remember to put the dishes in the sink when you're done.” She taps the cutting board twice and starts chopping carrots from her garden.

I like Henry's house, but I also don't. Things made sense to them, but not to me, but I guess that's the point. I knew it back to front – the busted window in the kitchen, the crooked door frame to the bathroom upstairs, where the couch was in the living room. I was a stranger in it, even though I knew how his sister arranged her shoes on the porch when it was raining, or how Mr. Walker folded his paper when he left for work. Mrs. Walker locks the door four times before she leaves to go grocery shopping in Mill Creek, counting it under her breath, and Henry always says – always – that he's going to climb that great big tree in the front yard, or the one big tree on Broad Street, and see to the edge of the world.

I don't understand that. The edge of the world is too far and too big for our eyes to see. Bill told me that. I also think it's because God doesn't want us to see it all in one go.

We do homework together in the living room while Mrs. Walker plays classical records from the gramophone Henry's grandparents got her and Mr. Walker as a Christmas present. She cleans to the notes, and it makes Henry laugh. It's stamped on the bottom from 1936, and makes the most beautiful sound when it's played right. She knows how to play it. Henry doesn't.

Henry's house is light and gentle. Everything feels a little too out of place, but also in place. On sunny days, the leaded glass in the front windows moves across the floor. The shelves are always a little sooty from the trains. It always smells like wet hay and fresh eggs. His room is dim and crowded. He shares with his sister, Ann, which they don't like but have no choice. Henry's gramma and grampa sleep in the other room.

But that's one thing I liked about Henry's house. It was a lot like mine.

We don't finish the homework because it's Friday. Max is distracting and lying on my stomach. He wants a lot of scratches and wants to give a lot of kisses until my hand is covered in slimy dog spit. “What do you want to do?” asks Henry. He's on his back, staring at the living room ceiling. His arms and legs flop against the rug. Mr. Walker painted the ceiling boards white. He holds up his finger. “Wait hold on.” I don't know what he's waiting for until the house starts to rumble, and a train's whistle whines like Momma's kettle. “Okay, good. They're back on time.”

I hum. My head's right next to his. Sometimes we ended up like that, except my hands are on Max's head while I feel it grumble at the sandwich. “We can scooter?”

Henry lifts his head. “It's too dark now.”

“We can go fast.”

“That doesn't stop the nighttime, Charlie.”