But I also need more money. We’re low on gas. Aisha and I have maybe fifty bucks between us. We’re stuck.

“I’ll text you a place,” I say, and then, as soon as she starts speaking, I hang up.

A few minutes later, a long text arrives:

I understand you are upset and I want you to know that o hear that. What I want you to thin about is how much of this is you being upset about your father. I know this must be terribly difficult for you. I locate myself in that feeling.

I’ve heard her talk like this before, like the psychologist she is, a million times. So why is it this time I start shaking?

I don’t respond to the text right away. When Aisha comes back from the bathroom, I’m searching for a place my mom can wire us money.

“You figure out what happened with the card?” she asks.

“Yeah, sort of. No. It’s fine. My mom is wiring us some money,” I say, while texting my mom the information. I don’t tell Aisha it’s only a hundred bucks, which is not that much given that we no longer have a credit card. I also don’t tell her that the money comes with a directive to get back to Billings immediately.

“Wow. My mom would not be that generous.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, trying to figure out how we’re going to make this work. There’s got to be a way. Failure is not an option.

WE PICK UP the money at a supermarket, where I also buy protein bars, because I’m famished. I give one to Aisha. As we’re sitting in the parking lot eating, the phone rings.

It’s a woman named Stacy Bailey, who saw Aisha’s post on surfingsofas.com and invites us to stay with her and her family for the night. We check out her reviews, and they’re flawless. A deal is struck, and we get the Baileys’ address.

Driving there, it feels good to have someone care about me — us — even a stranger named Stacy Bailey. She will make everything okay for a day. She’s our savior.

Casa de Bailey turns out to be this huge McMansion with a garage big enough for three cars. Stacy Bailey is a skinny, middle-aged blond lady who greets us warmly at the door, and we walk into a large, high-ceilinged main room with two leather recliners facing what must be a seventy-inch television mounted on the wall next to the fireplace. Two floral-print couches sit across from each other, and on one of them rests a college-aged guy with a beard. He’s playing with his phone, and he doesn’t say anything to us as we walk in.

Stacy says she has to get going, and she rushes to show us our rooms (separate!) and teach us how to use the TV remotes. She introduces us to her son, Gareth — the guy on the couch — who says, “No reality shows. Seriously. House rule,” without even looking at us. Mrs. Bailey groans and playfully smacks him on the top of the head.

“Do something today,” she says. “It’s a Monday. Really. Please.”

He says back, “Epic plans. Don’t you worry.”

We follow her to the kitchen, where we stand and watch as she sets a world record for cleaning up cookie-baking detritus.

“Thanks for taking us in,” I offer.

She nods. “It was just, I listen to podcasts? And this morning’s devotional was about how Heavenly Father wants us to share what we have with others. My mind flashed on surfingsofas.com and I thought, We haven’t done that in quite some time. There your message was, waiting for me. I took it as a sign. I’m so glad you’re here. I hope you’ll forgive my busyness. We’d love it if you’d join us for a family dinner tonight, but for today, I’m sorry to say, you’re on your own. Is that okay?”

“Thanks so much,” I say again. “Really. This is so nice of you.”

Aisha says, “I was serious about the house cleaning. Even a house this big. Totally worth it.”

Mrs. Bailey laughs. “No need, no need. Heavenly Father asks us to welcome others as we would be welcomed.” She explains that her husband, Robert, is at work, but he knows we’re around, and we should help ourselves to some cookies, as she’s made more than she needs for her committee meeting.

After she leaves, I look at Aisha. As soon as Stacy Bailey said, ‘Heavenly Father,’ I got that we were in a Mormon household, and I remembered Aisha’s No fucking Mormons rule.

“I feel like I’m being tested,” she says.

“Come on,” I say. “She’s really, really nice.”

“Yeah, you don’t get it.”

For some reason, maybe because I’m tired and I am so looking forward to sleeping in a comfortable bed for once, I decide to push Aisha a bit. “How is you grouping all Mormons together any better than other people grouping all gay people together?”

She scowls at me and shakes her head. “Yeah,” she says. “You really, really don’t get it, do you?”

I put my hands on my hips. “I guess I don’t.”

She looks away. “Well, never mind, then,” she says. She shakes her head as she walks out of the kitchen, leaving me with a slight pang in my chest and a plate of cookies to eat on my own. I’m so hungry that I devour two in about ten seconds.

“Cookies? Awesome sauce,” Gareth says, bouncing into the kitchen. He puts an entire cookie in his mouth. Then he pulls a carton of milk from the fridge, chugs from it, puts it back, and belches.

I wince. I guess I won’t be drinking any milk while I’m here.

The guy salutes me and says, “Gareth. As in the disappointing son. Are you the new converts? Did they baptize you yet?”

For once, I’m speechless. He grabs another cookie and smiles. “I’m kidding,” he says while chewing with his mouth open. “I’m used to this by now. People come through all the time. My shrink says it’ll broaden my worldview. I personally think it’ll be the reason I need a shrink, when one of you guests tries to suffocate me in my sleep.”

“Um,” I say.

He looks up. “Don’t listen to me. I talk before I think. Gets me in trouble. So who are you? Do you know you’re the first interracial couple my folks have allowed in here? We’re talking serious fucking progress, dude, serious.”

I laugh. “Awesome,” I say, not sure of what to make of this guy.

“They’re totally rad now. Like, my dad saw a beer in my room and he didn’t have a coronary. It was awesome, dude. Insane.”

“I’m Carson,” I say.

“Gareth,” he tells me again.

“So you’re Mormon and you drink.”

“Jack Mormon,” he says.

“Um. Like Jack Daniel’s?”

He rolls his eyes at me. “Where are you from, Mars?”

“New York.”

“City?”

I nod.

“Fucking awesome! Jack Mormons, we’re like, we haven’t left the church and we like the community and stuff, but we don’t follow all the rules. Me, I don’t follow any of the rules. Rules are for dickwads.”

“They should put that on a fortune cookie,” I say, but he doesn’t seem to care.

My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Mom.

I trust your on your way. Please keep me updated on your progress.

I put my phone away.

“How long you guys been together?” he asks.

“Oh, you mean me and Aisha?”

“Eye-eee-shuh. Dope name.”

I hope to God she’s not overhearing this conversation from her guest room.

“We’re not a couple,” I say, and then, for some reason I don’t quite get, I lean in and whisper, “She’s a lesbian.”

“Right on, right on,” he says, totally unbothered by this.

“I’m trying to change that, but I’m failing.”

Gareth grins. He starts telling me stories of the various girls in and around his life, and suddenly there’s a “we should” that appears, and I’m part of some group I don’t really know, and that’s weird, but I like it. He has to get going because he has a rollicking game of Frisbee golf to play, and he asks if I want to come along.