The Art of Adapting by Cassandra Dunn Page B

is great. Who is that?”
    Byron slid his elbow forward until the picture was covered. “Nobody.”
    â€œMatt has some very nice artwork,” Lana said, tackling the dinner dishes, silently reprimanding herself for talking, for distracting Byron from his homework. English, which he hated, but which had been her favorite subject. She wished he’d ask for help, or share his assignment, or just connect a little more, like Abby did. Sometimes. The truth was, Abby had been growing a little more distant with each passing year since about age eleven. At fourteen she could go a full day without uttering a single word. And then other days she’d talk so much Lana couldn’t keep up with her.
    Matt drifted into the room, handed Lana his empty ice-cream bowl, vanilla with chocolate sauce, same as always. He hesitated, watching Byron.
    â€œHemingway,” Byron said, without looking up. “He was kind of an ass, I guess.”
    Lana turned to scold him for his language, but stopped herself. He wasn’t talking to her. She didn’t want to interrupt one of his rare efforts to chat with Matt. Matt mumbled and slid his hands into his pockets, then back out. He smoothed his hair, tugged an ear, adjusted his collar, and tucked his restless hands back into his pockets.
    â€œHemingway was unhappy. And sick. He had liver problems. Diabetes. High blood pressure,” Matt said. “He was an alcoholic. And depressed. He committed suicide in 1961.”
    â€œReally?” Byron looked interested for the first time.
    â€œHis father, grandfather, brother, and sister all committed suicide. They had hemochromatosis. All of them. It’s hereditary. Too much iron in the blood. Toxic levels. The iron accumulates in joints and organs. Supposed to be very painful. Hemochromatosis leads to diabetes, cirrhosis of the liver, heart disease, and depression. The iron affects your brain and moods. A lot of suicideamong people with hemochromatosis. It’s more common in people of Irish descent. He won the Pulitzer and the Nobel prizes. He had four wives.”
    â€œHm.” Byron leaned back, taking in his half-written essay, and rubbed his lower lip.
    â€œNice. Good shading,” Matt said. “The perspective is off a little. With the background. It’s morning? I see what you did with the shadow there. It’s too light. But definitely looks like morning light.”
    Byron looked at him questioningly and Matt nodded a few times, his head bobbing as he considered his own thoughts. Matt held his hand out, a curved index finger gesturing toward Byron’s paper as his eyes took in the spinning ceiling fan overhead.
    â€œYeah,” Byron said. “It was this morning. The shadow of the tree’s pretty good, but something’s not right with the hill behind it, the building over here. The perspective is off.” He spun the paper around for Matt to get a better look. “You think it’s too light?”
    â€œHm,” Matt said. “The hill. Yes. The hill. It’s too . . .” His hand fluttered toward the page and Byron held out his pen. Shyly, Matt took the pen, made a few strokes that Lana couldn’t see, and they both nodded in unison.
    â€œAmazing,” Byron said.
    â€œBetter,” Matt said. He laughed a hoarse huff and shook his head. “Not amazing, but better.”
    Byron spun the page back and lowered his head. Lana wondered if Matt had hurt his feelings, if she should explain again the bluntness that comes with Asperger’s.
    â€œSteinbeck’s next,” Byron said.
    â€œAh, Steinbeck.” Matt nodded enthusiastically. “He also won the Pulitzer and the Nobel. But he only had three wives.”
    â€œIs his writing better?” Byron asked. “I just can’t get into all the bullfighting.”
    Matt nodded. “Not just better. Amazing.”
    Byron laughed, a loud bark, and Matt startled at the sound. Matt