On the way home Sam raced ahead of us through the grass, stopping abruptly in the picnic area.

“Call me,” Sam said. “What’s that mean?”

I looked up with horror.

“It means Call me,” said Harris. “Someone wants someone to call them.”

“But why is it on a chair?”

I shrugged, like God only knows.

“Is it free?”

“Well, it might belong to someone who put it here—”

“It’s kind of cool,” Harris said, plopping down in the chair. “Maybe we should grab it. For the backyard.”

I cocked my head: Really?

“What?” he said. “You love stuff like this.” Sam sat on his lap.

I didn’t say anything. It was hard for me to gauge the translucency of the situation. How obvious was it that this was the chair my lover used to step on to climb into my window? That I—I, Mama—had painted CALL ME?

“We can put it under the linden tree,” I said.