Would you like to come in?” he asks. Should I? I haven’t done something like this before. What are the risks? He can see me. He can touch me. Oh, how I wish he’d touch me again. It felt so wonderful. So alive. But the risks. What could go wrong? There might be someone else in the house. Someone who can’t see me. I shouldn’t risk it. I mustn’t. “I’d love to,” I say. Mason steps back and gestures for me to pass. I step over the threshold into his home. The scent of apples and cinnamon reaches me. Is someone baking a pie? Would I be able to eat a piece of pie? Wouldn’t that be exciting? To eat. I haven’t even tried such a thing. But here I am, being seen, being spoken to, being touched. Who’s to say I can’t eat a slice of apple pie. “This way,” Mason says, and leads me toward the front of the house. The walls are covered in photos. Some black and white, some full color. There are portraits, landscapes, flowers, and animals. “Is your mother a photographer?”
