

Text copyright © 2015 Maddie DeLange

All rights reserved.

maddiedelange.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without express written permission of the author.

This work is published by

Merchant Blue Publishing

P.O. Box 82852

Portland, Oregon 97282

ISBN-978-0-9961290-0-8

Cover design by Phillip Gessert

Interior design and editing by Indigo Editing & Publications

# Contents

  1. Cover Page
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Chapter 1
  5. Chapter 2
  6. Chapter 3
  7. Chapter 4
  8. Chapter 5
  9. Chapter 6
  10. Chapter 7
  11. Chapter 8
  12. Chapter 9
  13. Chapter 10
  14. Chapter 11
  15. Chapter 12
  16. Chapter 13
  17. Chapter 14
  18. Chapter 15
  19. Chapter 16
  20. Chapter 17
  21. Acknowledgments

# 1

R _achel? Where are you?_ I say. _Rachel?_

My shouts are lost, funneled into the ground where no one can hear them. I keep calling her name, calling for Rachel, trying to find out where she's gone. Again I shout but keep walking, making sloppy tracks through the snow.

I come across several things in the field: a house that feels as flat as a painting, a big empty barn, some rickety fence posts, and boulders that look like white turtle shells resting on the ground. There's a lone, barren tree. I approach it and place my hand on its trunk, feeling the coarse bark. I inspect the tree, hoping to find something. A clue, perhaps. But I don't, which is disappointing.

What was I thinking, that this tree would tell me where Rachel is? Of course not, that's stupid. I step away, looking up at the branches that race each other upward, veins spreading through the air.

When I look down, Rachel is standing inches from my face. I jerk back, nearly falling.

_Where have you been?_ I say. _I've been looking for you_.

She stares at me, unmoving, with eyes as dull as dirt. Her dark hair hangs straight down either side of her face, flowing over her shoulders. Her hands dangle at her sides, and her jeans cling to her skinny legs. I scowl when I see her bare feet.

_For Christ's sake_ , I say, _why aren't you wearing shoes?_ I scoop air with my hand, implying she should come along with me, come my way. _Let's go_ , I say.

_No_ , she says, _I can't_.

I turn on my heels, pivoting in the snow. _Stop being so difficult. Come on._

She refuses again, so I offer new reasons she should change her mind: It's dinnertime, so we should go home and eat. Mom made brownies. Don't you know how good those are? Oscar will eat them all if we're not there. And hey, the snow's getting bad: the storm will be here soon. Don't you care? Well, when we get home I'll make some hot cocoa and we can sit by the fireplace. Warm up. Get cozy. None of this works, though, and each failed attempt makes me feel weaker.

_Please?_ I say, as I have no more arguments in me. My arms are heavy, no good for gesturing or tugging. _Just for me,_ I say, _because I'm asking? Come on. Please?_

_No,_ she says, and she means it.

Since she won't budge, I lunge at her, counting on the element of surprise. Instead, I stumble, feeling physically confused, as if I've reached for a stair step that doesn't exist, because Rachel is still standing, still out of reach. I push myself up onto my knees and tell her I don't want to fight right now, but she needs to come home.

I sigh, frustrated and tired. I look up at her, meeting her eyes. _To be honest, Mom's really worried,_ I say.

_I'm not going back._

_God, you're such a bitch sometimes,_ I say. I get up and brush the snow from my knees and jacket. To make my hands warm again, I shove them in my pockets, and I glance at Rachel. She hasn't left again—she's still there—but the air between us is brittle. It could fracture if I'm not careful. I admit that I'm tired, very tired, and I want her to follow me home.

_Marina, I can't come with you._

_Yeah, you can,_ I say. _It'll be easy. Remember the time you snuck into the movies with me? It's like that—just act like you belong,_ I say. I stare at her, waiting for her to smile, to blink. I wait for her to say yes.

_But Marina,_ she says, _I'm dead._ Rachel tilts her head slightly—it's the only move she's made. _Deader than a doornail, hombre._

I reach out to touch her forearm, to graze it with my fingertips, but I can't reach. I'm not close enough. So I take a step, then another and another, never getting close enough. She is slipping away in pieces.

A tremor rattles my body, purging any shred of sleep. But the panic is brief, so after a moment I adjust my breathing, open my eyes, and stare at the ceiling. I force a swallow to uncoil my stomach.

I close my eyes. If I cinch them shut, maybe I can see her face, a clear image. I try to remember her dimples when she smiled. And the premature wrinkle between her eyebrows that she was so worried about. I cover my face with my hands and then turn over, laying facedown under the covers, trying to make it dark enough to recall her face. But nothing I do blots out enough light.

My throat is dry and my head heavy. The pressure building around me won't go away until I quit bracing myself against it, until I give in. And each day starts the same: I have to say the words.

Wincing, I whisper into the mattress. "Rachel's dead," I say, "because she slit her wrists and bled."

Simple words for a simple fact. After letting them out, though, after letting them loose in the world, I feel nauseous. They've left my mouth full of dust.

For a hundred days I've replayed this scenario. Seeing Rachel, talking to her, testing my memory of what she looked like, what she really looked like. I've pounded and stretched the same memories and made them so tough they won't ever break down. Like the time we got happy hour with her friend Ashley and went to a movie downtown. By the time we got to the theater, I'd lost my ability to keep quiet—Rachel kept elbowing and shushing me to shut up. According to her I was being obnoxious, but she couldn't say _obnoxious_ right. She'd had too many margaritas too.

It's hard to believe I've thought the same thoughts over a hundred times, but I can't remember a day when this didn't take place, when I didn't remind myself of what happened. It's become part of my routine; it's become something I have to do.

Although I just woke up, I'm already tired, but I can't go back to sleep. I couldn't if I tried. Besides, I can hear the clatter of dishes in the kitchen downstairs—that means Claire is awake already.

When I'm ready I get out of bed and walk downstairs. In the kitchen I see Claire, and I meet her eyes when she looks up from the stove. "Good morning," she says. "I hope I wasn't too noisy, but I made coffee."

"You're fine," I say. I pour myself a cup before walking toward the front door. I grab my cigarettes and lighter off of the coffee table in the living room. Over my shoulder I tell her I'll be back.

I set down my coffee on the front stoop and lower myself onto the first step before opening the pack. There are only two cigarettes left, which doesn't seem right. It takes me several tries to get my lighter working, since it's almost out too.

While hunched on the doorstep, I sip my coffee and smoke. Even though it's pointless, I think about the missing cigarettes. Where did the other eighteen go? Last night before bed I had two smokes. No, I had three. Before that, I had one on my way home from work. At work I had one on each break, and in the morning I had one with my coffee, then one on the way to work. That was Friday. So, Thursday? I bought this pack that morning, which means...I smoked nine that day? Maybe that's right, because I'd finished the other pack with my morning coffee and then stopped at the store on my way to Beaverton. It wasn't a short drive, and since I like the feeling of smoke and cold air whipping past my face, I had two smokes in the car. When Max called to cancel on me, I'd just crossed the city boundary, passing the bright white _Welcome to Beaverton_ sign. Sorry, he said, but something came up. He said he wanted to do breakfast another time. But I know my brother, and it wasn't a rain check: it was a rejection. Sometimes you just know.

During my drive home, I thought about the effort I'd put into working around his schedule, driving all the way out to fucking Beaverton because it was easier for him, asking Shell to take my morning shift. I did all that, and he waited until ten minutes before we were supposed to meet to bail. The whole way back I smoked, lighting another cigarette when one was gone—that accounts for the rest of the missing pack—because at least smoking feels good when nothing else does.

And when I got back into Portland, I felt spontaneous enough to skip my street and keep driving. When I arrived at the cemetery, I sat in my car in the parking lot for a while before getting out. I felt like a foreigner, looking around, feeling out of place. When I found the grave, I stood there waiting for something to happen. Not like zombie hands ripping out of the ground or ghosts whispering, but I anticipated feeling something else. Would it be relief? Closure? Acceptance? It was naive to expect any of that, I learned. Instead I felt surprised at how quickly I left, because visiting a grave isn't anything more than that: visiting a grave.

What was a relief was being at work, surrounded by chlorine and goggle-eyed faces in swimming caps. I dressed down, put on my windbreaker, and spent most of the day sitting in my chair, watching the pool. The college swimmers didn't expect me to talk or smile or be friendly. They expected me to blow the whistle, to catch them breaking rules. They expected me to be a lifeguard, nothing more.

I can't reconcile how many cigarettes I had on Thursday before I'm done smoking on the stoop. I put my cigarette out on the porcupine shoe scrubber we have by the door—it's entirely nonfunctional for cleaning shoes, but it works pretty well for putting out cigarette butts. I get up and go back inside. When I start getting dishes out, Claire shoos me away. "I got this," she says. "Just relax, okay? I'll let you know when it's ready."

I shrug and walk into the living room, where I sink into the couch. I reach for my computer and check my bank account balance, my work schedule, and all the other sites I go to. There's nothing really to see in the social sphere, but I read through the newsfeed anyway.

Krista's name appears in a post, so I read it. She talks about getting trashed and being hungover, which isn't a surprise. That's all we ever did when I used to hang out with her, except for the one time we went camping together. We borrowed her dad's tent, and putting it together took an eternity. Poles going in the wrong way, taking them out only to do it wrong again, forgetting the tarp goes underneath, losing the bag of stakes—it was a fiasco, but we succeeded. We finished an entire bottle of Jim Beam and a pack of one-dollar hot dogs that we roasted on sticks over a fire. At least we got a fire made. It helped that Krista had brought a road flare.

"Pancakes," Claire says. "Get in here, woman." I close my laptop and peel myself off the couch.

"It smells amazing in here," I say, sitting down at the table. I pick off a stack of pancakes and riffle through the bottles and jars of condiments on the table. I remember we have strawberries in the fridge, so I get up to grab the carton. I pick three good ones, rinse them off, and slice them, careful to make them the same thickness.

"Marina," Claire says. "Getting cold." Her mouth is full of food. She finishes chewing and swallows. "They won't be as good."

"I'm just about done." I position each slice on my plate, then I rearrange them to be like flowers, all petals attached in the center, facing out. Then I make them into a spiral, and it's better. After I add maple syrup and powdered sugar, I take a picture with my phone.

"You're doing it now, too?" Claire says. She takes another bite and keeps talking, still chewing. "Everyone's taking pictures of their food. I don't get it."

"Food is pretty sometimes." I put my phone down and rotate my plate slightly. "You're just jealous because my pancakes are prettier."

"Yeah, but I'm actually going to eat mine." She swallows. Her plate is a mess of peanut butter and brown mush. "It's all the same to me."

"You know what they say, you taste first with your eyes."

"Who says that?"

"Food Network people. Experts. They have all sorts of _secrets._ "

I cut into my first bite when the hourly news report comes on the radio, and they say there's been another suicide bombing in Iraq. For a long time I brushed off news reports of suicide bombings—they have become so frequent, how can they not be considered normal news? But this one was really horrendous—it was at a wedding, with at least thirty people reported dead.

While I stare at the big strawberry slice on my pancake, Claire gets up and changes the radio station. "Sorry about that," she says after sitting back down.

"What are you sorry for?" I say. I push the strawberry around with my fork. "It's the news. Sometimes people die."

"I just..." she says, trailing off. She frowns and looks down at her hands in her lap. "I don't know, I'm sorry. For everything."

I play with my fork, twirling it in syrup. "I know. You're sweet."

"It's been a terrible summer for you, your family. I don't understand a lot of it, but I'm just trying—"

"You're good, Claire. Don't worry, okay?"

She is silent. The chair squeaks when she shifts her weight.

I put down my fork and fold my hands in my lap. "You're doing a lot for me," I say. "I know it's not easy to be my friend right now." The backs of my hands look old and blotchy, like they aren't my hands. Veins and tendons bulge from under the skin. Thin skin, like that of someone older. Maybe I am older already—I definitely feel that way.

I look away from my hands, glancing at Claire. "I'm looking forward to going to the beach today," I say.

Claire nods. "A break will be good, I think. I was planning something laid-back, relaxing. Give you a chance to get your mind off things."

"Yeah," I say out of kindness. Too bad Claire doesn't understand it really doesn't work that way. I'm always thinking about it; there's no room for anything else. "It'll be fun."

We finish eating, and I gather the plates and clean up. Then we pack up and get on the road.

Some people are sad the summer is over. No more going to the river. No more barbecues on the porch. School's now in session. Camping season's almost up. But me, I'm not sad, not one bit. Work will pick up since the swimming season's starting officially at the pool, and when I'm not working, I can be at home, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, eating chips and watching TV with no shame.

We pass through several valley towns, following the road signs for Oregon beaches. In the mountains the highway traffic slows down because of the casino there, so when we finally pass it, I speed up quickly, punching the gas pedal, making Claire's head jerk back. Along the way I take note of all the same markers—the yards cluttered with dead cars, the handwritten sign advertising pony rides, the snapshot glances of the river ducking around the highway, and the billboard for the Newport wax museum. I can't believe it's still there—they haven't changed the ad since I came to the beach as a kid.

When we pass the sign for Devil's Lake, I know Lincoln City is close. We drive through more traffic before arriving at our hotel at the south end of town. We enter the lobby to check in, get our key cards, and climb one flight of stairs to our room. As soon as I turn the door handle, I feel a weight lifting, letting me step into a different life for the next twenty-four hours.

Inside, the curtains are drawn, so I cross the room, dropping my bag on the bed. When I pull back the thick beige curtain, the room brightens and I stand in awe of the view. We can see the ocean, right here in our room.

Claire sets her bag down on the bed. I look back at her and see her smiling. She walks toward me, her hands on her hips and her head high. "You can tell me how good I am," she says.

I laugh. "You _are_ amazing. I think this is better than the beach house."

"You still have to take me there, you know."

"You want to come down with us for my mom's birthday?" I say. "That's when we always go. It's just a little house we rent from Oscar's friend, but it's still like my second home. You'll love it."

"It's not far from here, is it?" she says. I tell her it's close by, but accesses a beach farther north. This is perfect, though, I tell her: staying at the beach house would require jumping through more hoops (having to ask my mom to ask Oscar to ask Gene about when the house is available), so staying in a hotel is nice for a change—nobody has to do laundry or clean the kitchen or make sure all the garbage is taken care of before leaving.

I unlock the sliding glass door and walk onto the balcony. Claire follows, shutting the door behind her. She rests her forearms on the railing next to me while I smack a new pack of cigarettes against the butt of my hand. Claire and I both stare at the ocean, silent. The wind makes it seem peaceful. That, and the seagulls far off. Like we're in some foreign life.

"What you feel like doing?" Claire says. "We have the day to do whatever."

"I don't know," I say. After patting all my jacket pockets, I find my lighter. "There's a ton of things, but when I think about doing any of them, it makes me feel tired."

"Like what things?"

"Well," I say, trying to light my cigarette, but the wind and my crummy lighter make it a challenge to get going. "Kites could be fun. Or sand castles." I get it lit and take drag. "And a beach fire. Maybe some saltwater taffy."

"Why don't we finish settling in here," she says, wrapping her arms tight around her sides, "and get a quick bite before going to the beach. After, we'll get dinner. Sound good?"

I say yes.

After having a cup of clam chowder, we walk into the stores nearby. I buy a pound of saltwater taffy in a candy shop. Then there's a store full of everything tie-dye: just from the window I can see shirts, pants, socks, hats, handbags, reusable shopping bags—stuff I'd never imagine anyone purchasing, even as a souvenir. Claire and I walk into a jewelry shop, but it's hard to even call what they have jewelry. Everything is covered in seashells or dried-out sea creatures. Again, more shit I have a hard time believing anyone ever wants to buy.

On the beach it's surprisingly warm—we definitely hit the weather right, and so has everyone else. Everywhere I look there are families with small kids or packs of teenagers huddled around clusters of backpacks and beach towels laid on the sand. There are also a lot of kites in the air, their skins crackling against the wind. We walk for a few minutes, looking for a place to rest, before going with a spot near a driftwood pile. After we roll out the blanket and unpack our stuff, Claire lays down and pulls out her phone. I take off my shoes and tell her I'm going on a walk. She nods and puts on her headphones.

With each step I grip the sand, wishing my toes could dig deep enough to keep me rooted in place. They can't, though, so I keep walking along the beach, taking in what I see. Some kids I pass are making a castle using hot-pink buckets and bright-yellow shovels. One group is busy covering a boy with sand, dumping tub after tub of it over his legs and slapping it down with open palms. It reminds me of when my parents took us to the beach, how the coast was also our getaway place. I don't know why it always felt special for us; it's a common vacation destination for many people. We did what lots of people did and still do: Rachel and I made castles from sand and mussel shells. Sometimes we buried each other too, and a few times even Dad volunteered to be buried. Max had a remote-control car that he brought to the beach. He drove it all across the sand, testing how far it would go before the radio-control signal grew too weak.

Just last February I was at the beach with Rachel. It was cold and gray and drizzly when we got to Seaside—a different city on the coast, an hour or two up Highway 101—with our cousin Pamela. She was visiting from Spokane, and even though we told her it'd be cold, that there was no chance for sunbathing or anything without a rain jacket, she was insistent on going anyway. She wanted to get away, to see the ocean, so we slipped into Rachel's car and left, not even bringing a change of clothes—it wasn't going to be a long trip.

The condo we stayed at was owned by Pamela's coworker, who leased it out for much of the year. Pamela made it sound complicated, how someone else had booked it for the weekend but couldn't go or reschedule, and even when our cousin told the story again, the circumstances didn't make sense. Pamela was describing the social dynamic at her workplace that she thought was essential to understanding why she was the one getting the condo and why she had driven eight hours to get there. Meanwhile, Rachel's fingers drummed against the steering wheel and I kept saying, "Uh-huh, totally," and Pamela said, "I know, right?" And we finally got onto another topic.

The condo was tiny but cozy, and the previous tenant had left behind a bottle of wine and a pint of ice cream. Rachel and I slept on the pull-out couch and joked around all night because Pamela passed out after having half a glass of wine. Rachel and I polished off that bottle before sneaking out to get another one. We passed it between us while sitting under a pile of throw blankets, camping in the living room and basking in the glow of late-night TV.

That's just one of the days at which I look back, studying it for scratches, for breaks and cracks. Had Rachel already decided then that she wanted to die? Is that something you think about for five months? Five days? Five minutes? Fuck if I know.

On the horizon over the ocean, the sun flattens, shrinking into a point. I know it's bad to stare directly at the sun—they always say so. But it's so beautiful, so peaceful, and I can't help but gaze at it. When I look at the ocean I'm reminded that the world is very big and I, on the other hand, am very small. A blade of grass. An ant. A fleck of dust, microscopic and weightless in the air that's always moving.

My nose and fingers are numb. My stomach rumbles. I pat my pockets in search of cigarettes but find none. They've got to be in my purse, which is with Claire.

The sun is gone, and the pink sky is going to turn dark soon.

I turn around and walk in the other direction, backtracking.

Chinese food is always the best thing when you're in a small town filled with bad restaurants. At least you know what you're getting when you order steamed rice, stir-fry, and sweet-and-sour pork. We sit on the couch and eat in front of the TV. Claire flips through the channels and stops when she comes across a channel playing _Jeopardy._

"I haven't watched this in years," I say.

"Me neither." Her mouth is full of food.

The show has just started. We size up the contestants, who stand behind their podiums, reserved, quiet. Like they always are.

"Characters for two hundred," says the skinny male contestant.

"Doesn't he look like Brian Waters?" Claire says. "Remember from seventh grade—"

"Shh!" I say. She whispers an apology and turns to the screen.

The next answer is announced. "She's the fabled storyteller in the _Thousand and One Nights_."

"Who is Scheherazade?!" we both say at the same time. The female contestant says so too. Her glasses make her look like an owl, and she is my favorite.

"That woman is going to win." I look at Claire and wave my fortune cookie in the air, its plastic wrapper crinkling between my fingertips. "Want to bet?"

"Okay," she says. "I bet the man, the one with the bow tie."

The game is close, but in the last round both men lose money because they placed bets. The owl woman wins because she bet nothing and lost nothing. Claire grumbles and tosses her cookie into my lap.

"Winner take all," she says.

I laugh. "Hold on," I say. I rip apart the cellophane of each cookie and crack them open.

"So," Claire says, "what did you get? Eternal love? Will your garden grow well this year?" She leans on the sofa armrest, propping her chin on her palm.

I unfold the first crumpled piece of paper. "Well, the first one is, _A golden egg of opportunity falls into your lap this month._ "

She smile-frowns. "Lost in translation?"

I shrug and pause while unfolding the next tiny piece of paper. I start laughing.

"What is it?"

I grab my stomach and catch my breath. " _Help, I'm being held prisoner in a Chinese bakery!_ "

"That's not even a fortune."

I hold out the broken fortune cookie to Claire. "The captive fortune-cookie writer needs your help!"

She takes the cookie and pinches the white paper strip out of the pile. She squints while reading it. "Poor little fortune-writer," she says. "He's all cooped up in that evil bakery."

With my index fingers I try to smooth out my fortune but can't get the curl out, so I fold the strip and put it in my pocket. I eat the cookie, and the crunching sound is deafening.

The couch is comfortable. The throw blanket is cozy, and I feel toasty, wrapped up in it. The room is still, except for the blue light that dances around in erratic pulses from the TV, which is almost silent because I turned it down when I noticed Claire was asleep. The glowing green numbers of the alarm clock indicate it's after one in the morning.

I get up from the couch and slide open the balcony door, careful to make as little noise as possible. Pulling my sweatshirt tight around my ribs to keep warm, I try to light my cigarette, but no matter what I do, the sparks don't turn into flames. I step back inside and grab my sneakers, phone, and a room key. I leave the room for the lobby downstairs, but there's nobody at the front desk. I look around, standing by myself, hoping to hear someone.

"Hello?" I say. I rest my hand on the front-desk counter. The electric humming from the computer at the desk is loud, and the lights feel too bright for this room.

I hear murmuring in another room, up the hallway. The door handle turns, and a twiggy young man peeks out.

"Oh, sorry," he says. He closes the door and walks toward me, his shoes clattering against the floor. "How can I help you?"

"I figure everything around here is closed, huh?"

"Like what?"

"A gas station, 7-Eleven, or whatever. I need a lighter."

He considers my situation like it's a puzzle. "Everything's closed, but I think I have..." he says while stepping behind the desk. He pauses, looking through several drawers. "Yep." He looks up at me. "You want some matches?"

I tell him yes, and he gives them to me. I say thanks and walk outside and light my cigarette. It's dark, but the moon is bright enough that I can see the beach, the waves rolling onto the sand. I walk toward the side parking lot, then toward the back of the hotel. I keep walking, my cigarette in hand.

I follow the paved trail to the steps that lead to the sand. I stop to look around; there aren't any campfires or people. Only beach and the dull, muted roar of ocean waves lapping against the shore.

When my cigarette is finished, I toss the butt on the ground and shove my hands in my pockets to keep them warm. My mind returns to Rachel. Again, my thoughts revolve around Rachel. Her death, her life before death, and her life as it would've been if she hadn't died. I don't want to think about those things but have no choice. I want to push those thoughts out, to let them loose so they'll stop fluttering, stop banging their thick heads against the cage. They don't want to be trapped, but they don't want to be free. They never know what they want.

I want to cry. Or throw up. Both make you feel like shit, but afterward you feel relieved. You feel better. So I abandon myself to those thoughts, lingering on the worst possible things. I push myself, allowing images to take shape that twist my stomach like a rag. I wait for it to happen, the moment when I can't tolerate it any longer and exceed the threshold, disintegrating. It never comes, though—I can't find it, the place where everything cracks. Instead, I feel sick.

Drifting toward the water, I look at my feet and gauge how close I can get to the waves without getting wet. When the water's too close, I run backward, trying not to trip on my own feet. When the wave idles on the sand, I stop, sharing the night with it for a moment, but it slithers away. I do it again and again until my legs feel stringy and cold.

When the waves crawl in and run away again, I scan the water's edge for the next wave. Instead of focusing on the next surge, though, my eye catches something by my toes. I only see it because it glints against the dark, wet sand, and it could be tinfoil, but I grab it anyway. I run away from the waves so my feet don't get wet.

At first I think it's trash or a piece of a glass float, a remnant of something broken. I shift it from hand to hand, and I hold it in the air between my thumb and index finger, catching as much light as possible. It's not garbage or junk: it's a piece of jewelry, something designed and crafted, like a pocket watch or pendant. In the moonlight it shimmers like the ripples in the ocean water.

"A golden egg of opportunity, huh?" I say. My voice crackles, and I realize how thirsty I am.

As I look over my find, the surface continues to glitter, to sparkle in the moonlight. It must be something really unique. It's so sparkly that it seems to glow—enough light is reflected from it to cast the shadow of my hand on the sand beneath my feet.

In an instant I feel a shock through my body, tingles flooding from my fingertips and running over my skin. Immediately I drop the pendant on the ground and start wiping my hands on my pants, and thoughts of jellyfish cross my mind. It could be that, a jellyfish, but I've never been stung by one, so I don't know what to look for.

I curse, and then I stick my finger in my mouth. As soon as I do that I realize how stupid that is and kick myself for being so dumb. I spit all the saliva out of my mouth. For a moment I stand very still, taking time to measure how badly my fingers hurt and if my mouth feels weird.

I look at the palm of my hand, wondering what to make of it. Under the moon I see not a cut but something else, something round. My eyes straining, I look over it, staring. The circle fills in, becoming darker as blood pools in my palm. Cradling my hand, I jog to the water and then crouch close to its edge so I can wash my hand and clean off the blood.

But right before I lower it into the water, I see the dark spot change. It's not that it gets bigger—in fact, it gets smaller—and it turns lighter, but then...it begins to glow?

"Fuck this," I say, plunging my hand into the icy saltwater. I watch the silvery-blue spot dissolve, vanishing as the wave washes over it.

When I stand back up, I look at my hand. I thought I'd gotten it cleaned up, but it's still there, the glow. I squint and notice that within the affected area are tiny lines, small circles, and other geometrical shapes, like a stamp in luminescent ink.

Maybe I didn't get all of it off? I wash it again, but it still doesn't come off my palm.

And it's also appearing on the back of my hand now, that glow. The moonlit stamp.

I shove my hands in my pockets.

I look at the sand, at the pendant, or whatever it is, lying there. I should probably just forget it—for all I know, it's covered in something hazardous. But the idea of walking away from it makes me hesitate. It makes me think about the fortune cookie. I remind myself it's a stupid thing to care about, the message—those things get printed in some gritty factory with cheap paper and cheap labor. They're jokes: they're entertainment, for fun. But even though I know this is true, I still want my fortune to be real.

On top of that, the fact is, it's beautiful, the thing shining in the darkness; I can't just leave it behind.

I use the end of my sleeve as a glove to grab it from the sand. I put it in my pocket and walk back to the hotel.

# 2

I wake up when I hear rustling nearby. Claire is riffling through her bag. She tiptoes about the bed, trying to be quiet, and gets her keys. She leaves the room, and I close my eyes but can't fall back asleep.

I get out of bed and go to the bathroom. On the counter, sitting on the white washcloth, is the object I found last night on the beach. I study it again even though I spent a long time inspecting it last night when I got back to the room. After I had eased the door open, I tiptoed into the bathroom, careful not to make any noise while Claire was sleeping. I wanted to wash it, so I set it in the sink, which I filled with water. It was a relief when I couldn't find anything suspicious about it—no goop, no cuts or glowing lines. There were no sea bugs or creepy-crawlies or anything I could see.

I don't know what it's supposed to be, this thing I found on the beach. It's detailed enough to be a brooch or pendant for a necklace, but I don't see how that would work; there aren't any notches or loops to string a chain through. There's a red stone, a ruby or something, in the center. I gaze at it, the red stone, appreciating its rich color and depth. It feels like I'm peering into a deep tunnel, though the thing in front of me is only a small, smooth rock.

I pick up the pendant, touching it only with the washcloth, and set it on the coffee table before going to the balcony for a smoke. When I walk back inside, the front door chatters as Claire reenters the room too. Our eyes meet.

"You're awake," she says. She stifles a yawn. "Hope it's not because I made too much noise."

"You're fine." I sit down on the couch and crisscross my legs. "I didn't wake you up this morning, did I?"

"No." She meets my eyes and tilts her head to the side. "Why? Were you up late?"

"My lighter stopped working, so I went downstairs and got matches at the front desk. I went on a little walk while I was down there." I reach for the washcloth with my find and cradle it in my lap. "When I was on the beach, I found something."

"What did you find?"

I tell her I'm not sure. She crosses the room to take a closer look.

"What is it, you think?" she says. "It's really pretty."

I tell her maybe some kind of jewelry, because it's detailed. Ornate.

"Filigree," she says. "That's what you call the detail, the delicate texture, here." She points, circling the surface with her index finger.

"And it was really weird," I say after repositioning myself on the couch and pulling my legs tighter beneath me, "when I came across it. How do I explain it...the thing was kind of glowing, which is how I found it."

Claire frowns. "That's weird. Maybe it was the phosphorescence in the water."

I ask Claire what that means, and she says some marine bacteria and plankton are bioluminescent: they make the ocean glow sometimes.

"Really? That's fascinating." I tell her about it making my hand glow, wondering if that's bioluminescence too. And how this design was glowing on the front and back of my hand, not unlike the filigree on the jewelry.

"Uh, maybe you got stung by something. A jellyfish?"

"No, it wasn't like that. If you get stung like that, it doesn't stop hurting—"

"Or you were just really tired?" she says, shrugging.

I agree with her. I say I was really tired.

Claire drives my car on the way back home. It's cloudy today, and the traffic's heavy. Lots of weekend vacationers are also leaving, going back home. We drive past the casino again, and traffic is good until we arrive at Dundee, a tiny town that's half shiny new with vineyard money and half shabby, the abandoned buildings boarded shut with tattered and mildewed plywood. The speed limit decreases to twenty-five miles per hour, but we go even slower because of all the congestion.

Claire says her stomach is rumbling and she wants to stop for lunch. I say okay, and when I see an antique shop, I tell her to pull over at the next traffic light. When we stop I get out and light a cigarette. Claire says we should eat first, but I shrug. She points to the taqueria a block down the street.

"I'll see you inside," she says, and before I can answer, she turns and walks quickly, her steps trying to say something.

"Wait up." I put out my cigarette, dragging it across the brick wall nearby. It hisses when I smother it.

Inside the taqueria the aromas of corn tortillas and grilled meats and peppers swirl around, belonging together. The combination of smells reminds me of my grandmother, my dad's mom. Each time I saw her, she cooked a feast, welcoming my parents and showing us off to her friends. I remember hugs from strangers and lots of unfamiliar faces looking down at me, talking in choppy words and smiles. I only met Grandma Yelena twice.

Claire and I stare at the menu, a piece of butcher paper taped to the wall and covered in black marker. From behind a dull metal rack shielding the kitchen from the lobby a short man appears, and he shouts something back there before coming to the cash register. He smiles, big and friendly, and one of his teeth is covered in gold.

" _Hola,_ " he says. His eyes meet mine while he tightens the strings of his apron. " _Que te gusta..._ " he says, his words unraveling as he continues to talk. I smile at him, not knowing what to do because of the wall building between us, muffling words. I grab my elbows and pull them tighter to my chest.

He pauses. "You no eh-speak eh-Spanish?" he says.

When I shake my head, he says sorry, sorry, and forces a laugh. "I thinked you eh-speak eh-Spanish. You look..." He fills in the words he doesn't know with gestures circling his face. I know what he means.

"My grandparents were from Mexico," I say. "From Nayarit."

"Ah, yes." He smiles, and the gold-capped tooth makes the others look bright white. "Nayarit very nice. The beach is good."

"Yes." I've never been there. Not to the beach or to any of the cities. I've never been to Mexico.

I order a fajita burrito and cup of horchata, even though I don't want them anymore, and I pay. When I find a free table, I sit down and start chewing my nails.

Claire sits down on the other side, facing me. "He's really nice," she says. After she unzips her jacket and peels it off her arms, she looks at me. "What?"

"What do you mean, 'What'?" I say.

"What's wrong? You seem upset."

"It's nothing."

She pauses, lays her elbows on the table. "Did he say something?"

"No."

"Well, he must have said something offensive, because—"

"For the last time," I say, "I don't know what he said."

I'm glad when our food comes. Although it's hot and the grilled peppers and onions crunch and the fajita beef is juicy and tender and smoky, I can't taste it. I can't taste anything. I remember the tamales Grandma Yelena made one time. The steam spiraled out of the tinfoil when I pulled it back, unwrapping it.

After finishing I throw away my trash. I tell Claire I'll be outside. She nods. I push the glass doors and feel the clash of warm kitchen air against the cool, damp outside air, and it smells like it'll rain soon. I walk toward the end of the building before pulling out a cigarette, and when Claire comes out, we walk down the street and head for the antique shop. When we get to the entrance, I scratch my cigarette on the sidewalk, putting it out, before walking inside.

The shop is not cozy or cute. Chairs, cushions, and pieces of furniture are stacked on each other. We walk past mounds of stuff chucked together into piles. I walk toward a glass case in the back of the store in search of jewelry, but the hutch only houses decorative teacup and saucer sets.

"Can I help you find something?" someone says behind me. I turn around and see an older man with colorless, wiry hair. He smells spicy and weirdly clean.

"I'm looking for jewelry," I say. "Do you have any?" He nods and leads me to a section of the store I overlooked—it's behind a giant armoire.

I gaze into the case, looking at what's for sale. He has a box of rings, a dozen necklaces, some decorative pins. I crouch to get a better look. "You don't have any pendants or pocket watches?"

"Just what I got here," he says.

"What can you tell me about that one?" I point to the middle necklace, the one with pearls on it.

He grabs it from the case. As he shows it to me, he says the previous owner came across it while cleaning out her husband's great aunt's things after she died. The estate sale wasn't successful, so here it is.

"I'd put this one in the early thirties, actually." He squints at it, as if he hasn't seen it before. "Good value. These here are freshwater pearls." He points to the pendant for emphasis.

I nod, saying that's good to know. He puts it back in the case and reaches for something else in there.

"I've got something," I say, interrupting him. "Do you mind taking a look at it?"

He says sure. I take the object I found on the beach from my pocket and hand it to him. He regards it in his palm, prodding it with his finger.

"Where did you find this, young lady?" He holds it under the giant magnifying glass attached to the counter.

"It was my mom's," I lie. "Do you have any idea where it could be from? Or what it's made of?"

He holds it closer to his eyes, his lips peeled apart to show his teeth, and his breaths are wheezy. "I haven't seen anything like this before." He leans toward me, his elbows propped on the glass case. He squints.

"What is it?" I say.

He points toward the bottom of the pendant. "See this here? Those might be hinges. You know, like a locket or a pocket watch."

I lean forward and squint. I see what he means by hinges.

"So," I say, "it would open there?"

"Looks like it," he says. "Here, hold on a sec." He ducks under the counter, riffles through something, and stands back up with a tiny screwdriver. He tries to pry the locket open, but it doesn't budge. He circles around the entire surface, testing various places along the seam, before giving up.

"She doesn't want to open," he says, "but this here's a nice piece of work. Pretty gemstone in there..." He tilts the locket, letting the ruby catch light at different angles. The man rocks his head side to side, thinking. "I'll give you ten dollars for it."

"That's it?"

He shrugs. "Don't sell it if you don't want to." He gives the locket back to me. I tell him I'll think about it while putting it back in my pocket. Claire and I spend a few more minutes in the store before heading back to the car. I tell her about my conversation with the jewelry guy. She says she has some jewelry-cleaning stuff at home, and I should try it out. Maybe that will help?

"Sure," I say. "Why not? For all I know it was swallowed and shat out by a sea lion."

Even though our trip was short, it was nice to go somewhere and now be back. I lie on the couch and eat the rest of the taffy while checking my email. Claire comes downstairs, and I can feel her staring at the mess of crumpled paper wrappers on the coffee table.

"I'll clean when I get up," I say. "I promise."

She doesn't respond and walks to the laundry closet. I get up and have a cigarette, then another. It rains outside, and the air feels clean. When I go back inside, I flip through the channels and stop on a crime drama. It ends; I change the channel again and find a reality TV show where people are on an island, having to survive in an environment filled with giant insects and ungodly humidity. And half the people are dumber than monkeys.

I pull the throw blanket over my shoulders. When I hear a rattling noise in the kitchen, I open my eyes and look up. I see Claire making coffee and realize it's the morning already. I have to get my ass off the couch, but I don't want to. My free night was in my hands and now it's gone, having slipped through my fingers.

Before Claire leaves, she says she'll be home late tonight, but the jewelry cleaner is on the coffee table. I say okay, thanks, and get up. I pour myself a cup of coffee and have a cigarette on the stoop.

I drive to work. The sky is cloudy on one side and on the other, peach and mauve and lilac. Like whipped flowers spread on thick. I catch glimpses while trying to keep my eyes on the road.

I open my locker in the staff corner of the locker room. My things are as I left them. Good. Not like I was worried, but hey, you never know. People get stuff ripped off all the time. I've only gotten ripped off once here, and it was because I didn't lock up before I left.

When I'm dressed down to my swimsuit and shorts, I walk out into the pool area. It's busy because the swim team is practicing. Mike, the coach, is shouting and grunting and waving his arms like a maniac.

"You're turning too _early_ , Josh! Come on, now," he says. Even though it's noisy in the pool, I can hear every word the man says. He's just that loud. And his face? You can see the damn thing from the opposite side of the pool, it being somewhere between pink and freakish tanning-bed tan.

No one's at the counter. I go behind it, looking into the office. "Mary?" I say. "Mary, are you in here?"

A ruffling of boxes, something moving around. I walk farther inside, entering the back storage room, where Mary's bent over a pile of boxes in the corner. I can see her backside, her side-snap pants that shine in the dim lights from above.

"Mary, do you need help with anything?" I say. "It looks like you're getting yourself buried back here."

She looks up at me before standing upright. "Hi," she says, breathing hard. "I'm trying to get to the box underneath this one." She points with her foot, tapping the box with her sneaker.

"Can I help you with that?" I walk toward the box in question. We both lift it up and move it. Mary tells me she needs the other box in her office, so we pick it up and move it there together.

"Thanks," she says. She breathes and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. "You clocked in, yeah?"

"I'm getting to that. Need a new time card."

"Of course, that's right. You told me that last week, didn't you? Or was it Shell?"

"No, it was me." Shell hardly comes to work. Half her shifts she cancels, giving the hours to me. "I used it all up," I say.

"Well, let's get you a new one." Mary walks to her desk, where she pulls one drawer open and examines its contents and then grabs another. She sits down and retrieves a pen from the top drawer. Writes my name. She pauses. "Forgive me, but your last name. It's M-A-G-A-N-A, right?"

I say yes. She hands the time card to me.

"Did I mess up? Here, give it back," she says. She reaches for it.

"No," I say, pulling it toward me. "It's fine, Mary."

"I misspell things all the time. But what is it, really? You can't lie to me now."

My smile feels obvious, visible, but I know it's small because it's so heavy. "It doesn't count as a spelling mistake, not really," I say. "I write it with the squiggle above the _n_."

"The squiggle?" Her eyebrows push together, until they separate, and her lips crack open to form an _O_. "I know what you mean—I've seen it before. What's an example?"

I look at the ceiling. Right above Mary there's a brown spot, like a bruise on an apple. Its edges are scraggly and the inner ring is darker. "You know Christopher Columbus's ships?" I say.

"Oh gosh, what are they again." She nods and closes her eyes. "The _Niña,_ the _Pinta_ , and the _Santa María_. There's a squiggle in the first one, right?

I nod. "Yep. Like that."

"What do you call that? I know what you're talking about now."

"I don't remember," I say, lying, because I've never known what it's called. I remember watching my dad sign his name that way, watching him write my name like that, when he signed checks or filled out paperwork. I stood eye level with the counter, watching his fingertips squeeze flat against the pen while he dotted and slashed letters then added a wave above the _n_ in a comfortable way. And I should be comfortable with it too.

"But that's how I write it," I say.

Sitting on the lifeguard chair, I let my feet dangle. Mike's shouts bounce against the other sounds in the pool, like balloons. One of the swimmers I watch does the butterfly, and it's terrible. The trick is to get the kicking right, the way the legs move together, your knees buckling at the right moment so you don't interrupt your momentum. People, especially boys, always think it's about circling your arms wide, that that's where the power comes from.

I work the afternoon shift too, since Shell called in, saying she won't make it today because of exams. Something about needing to pass her midterm or making up a lab, Mary says. She bats her hand toward the sky, because it's typical. It ends up working out okay for me, though, since that way I almost work full-time. And I need the money.

After the college swim practice is over, it's open swim until eight. Some kids stick around to do extra laps. Most slink out, dripping, with their bare feet splattering against the asphalt. Mary comes by, and we talk about closing the pool early because it's slow and she wants to get out. We need to add more chlorine before we leave, but that's about it as far as maintenance goes. I tell her fine with me.

"Only one thing," I say. "You mind giving me a few minutes?"

"Sure," she says. "Going out?"

"No." I slip off my shorts and take off my whistle. "Going in."

Several lanes are empty, and I pick one. I walk up to the block. Step onto it. The plastic is distant but familiar, like a friend from childhood. I stretch a little and redo my hair in a tight bun—I don't have my cap or my goggles, but hey, oh well. I haven't swum in weeks, maybe months.

My toes grab the edge of the block, curling over. I lean down and grab the edge with my fingers, thinking about form. I count to three and jump.

The water is thick around my ears when I plunge through the surface. Too bad this part doesn't last for very long, because for these two seconds I feel like I'm a mermaid. When I reach the surface, I gulp the air. My arms and legs feel stiff and clunky, but they know the movements. They just aren't as good at them right now. At the other end I flip and push off the wall, gliding under the surface until I break it for air.

A few laps later I slow down, not finishing the last ten meters. I crawl along the lane rope and climb out after waiting for my lungs to stop aching. Each step is dense, rigid, as I walk to Mary's office.

"Good swim?" she says.

"Meh." I shrug. "I'm majorly out of shape."

"Aren't we all. Hell, I was never in shape, girl. At least you can pop out a few laps."

I feel sluggish and want a cigarette, but instead I help Mary close up before heading home.

The air is thick when I enter the house in the evening, so I open the windows for circulation. It's still warm enough for that.

I open the fridge and grab pepper jack cheese and tortillas, because quesadillas are always good for dinner. I turn the radio on. It's still tuned to classic rock. The light outside is orange, shining parallel to the ground. After I eat I take a long, hot shower and put on sweats. I feel refreshed and cleansed, and the couch is like a sinkhole, so I stay there and open my laptop.

My phone rattles on the coffee table like a crippled insect trying to fly. The message is from Max.

_Not going to make it for Mom's b-day. Sorry_ , he says.

I set the phone back down, needing a moment to think. Then I pick it up again.

_Thanks for letting me know, like, last minute. Again_ , I say. My face grows hot while I wait for him to respond, but he never does.

Asshole.

I put my laptop and phone on the coffee table and turn on the TV. I scroll through channels, looking for something I feel like watching. I stop on a show I don't know but looks okay, since it's a hospital drama, but I really don't know what's going on, so I change the channel, landing on a different hospital drama.

I get up from the couch and make my way to the kitchen. There's mail on the kitchen table, but I don't want to go through it right now. I hope to find something I want inside the fridge. There's orange juice, so I pour myself a glass. I go outside and have a smoke, then realize I shouldn't have drunk the juice because the combination's coated my mouth in bitterness. I migrate back to the couch and notice the little blue jar of liquid sitting on the coffee table.

"Oh yeah," I say out loud. "Duh."

I can't remember the last time I cleaned jewelry. Maybe never? Usually I buy the cheap stuff that breaks before there's a reason to clean it—tiny jewels pop out, beads break off, and shiny paint flakes off, revealing the dull, gray metal underneath. Maybe when an entire piece of jewelry turns waxy or greenish, I'll rinse it under the tap, but usually I just throw it in my jewelry box and get something else.

I wander the house for the various items I need. The locket. Dish towels. A retired toothbrush. When I sit down, I realize I should get some paper towels, just in case. I lay the first towel out flat in order to protect my workspace. I change the channel back to the first hospital drama, on channel seven. I open the jewelry cleaner, then wince and hold my breath—it stinks like a litter box.

I dunk the locket into the cleaner. The instructions say to let it sit there for five minutes, so I do. Then I reach in the little jar, pull out the locket, and set it down on the other towel. I rub it with a paper towel, but I don't really know what that's going to do, so I rub it with the toothbrush. I feel like I'm getting somewhere when small, sticky balls of black gum peel up and pile up on the bristles of the brush, and I wipe them away.

The locket starts to look different as I rub it. With the extra cloth draped over my palm, I grab it and try to buff it with small, circular motions. I don't really know what I'm doing, but I hold it up in the light. Before, the grime gave the locket an antiqued look that I wasn't sure I wanted to change. Now, though, I'm glad I cleaned it, because the silvery high points are shinier, brighter, like a river glinting under the sun.

The ruby catches the light somewhere deep inside itself and reflects it back. I brush my thumb over the stone. Maybe that's the button? Because something clicks and the seam around the edge of the pendant loosens, the gap now wider. I wedge my thumbnail in there to pop it open. When I had a locket necklace a long time ago, I developed a snag in my nail where it got chewed up by my constant opening and closing of the tiny door. Opening the latch was addicting: I liked the sound it made, the mini, Barbie-sized click.

I expect to see a black-and-white portrait behind the locket door, an engraving of someone's name, or nothing but grime. I don't expect to see what's in there.

It's an eye, a closed one. It's just a lid and lash line.

Is that a symbol for something, some religious or spiritual shit? I think back to the comparative religions class I took in my only term at college. There was mention of a third eye in Buddhism, but that's all that comes to mind. It's kind of weird, really, since the locket is made of silver or something and is inset with this stone—it seems expensive—and inside, in this mysterious compartment where you'd put something intimate, something significant, is this weird image of an eyelid.

A pale, bluish eyelid. What a joke.

I touch the image and notice that my skin is doing the weird thing again, the glowing. I turn my hand over so I can look at the backside, and—as I expect to see but dread finding—the stamp is on the back too. The phosphorescence. With my free hand I grab the paper towel from the table and rub the back of the affected hand, the right one, trying to rub off the blue glow. It doesn't do any good.

I'm still holding the locket in my right hand, my fingers curled around the edges. I turn my hand back over, palm up, and freeze, stunned into stillness. It takes a series of milliseconds to register that what I'm seeing isn't right, because the eyelid is open, and now there's the eye.

It's looking around, looking at me.

# 3

Sometimes you get confused and don't know where you are. Sometimes it takes you a second to remember what's going on, to put together enough pieces floating around to make a picture, one you can see.

There are noises. Are they gasps? Coughing? You know what coughing is, what it sounds like and how it feels. The tingling detonates in your esophagus and chest, the tiny prick jabbing all at once and making you hungry for air. The pain whittles down to a vibration before becoming a memory, a thing that lives in the past. But then it happens again.

Tumbling, bouncing between coughs. You've been throttled enough and break open. Light, colors—the world beyond the backs of your eyelids is loud and bright and swirling. You want to twirl back into not knowing, back where it was dark and silent, but your eyes are open now, and you have to see.

Hands grabbing your shoulders. Movement and force exerted on you through the fingers clutching your collarbone.

_Baby,_ she says. _Baby girl?_

_She's breathing! Mom? Mom—_

_Baby girl, oh my baby girl!_ she says again and peels your shoulders off the ground, away from a foundation you didn't know was there. You thought you were wandering loose before she pulled you up, and her arms around your shoulders become another foundation, a safe harbor. Her embrace is sincere. It's strong and resolute—she will not let go, and you'll drift together now. She is another anchor, a buoy floating by itself in the ocean, knocked around but never broken by punching waves.

Your eyes pick and grab and compose as fast as possible. It's Mom, that's whose arms are cinched about your shoulders. Mom in her coral-red swimsuit with little ruffles along the side that run from her hips to her bust. You want to tell her you hear her, that you aren't going anywhere, but she's pressing you too close. Your face is caught in her hair, and she's rocking you back and forth.

_Mom?_ she says, the different voice. It's a voice you know. But where from? When you catch sight of her face, the one from which the voice originates, you recoil. It's not that you're surprised or that you're upset or taken aback at locking eyes with her, this other girl. It's that through her eyes, you can see the worry. Woven in the creases of her forehead, of those surrounding her eyes, is fear.

Mom's arms shift, and she strokes the top of your head, running her hand over your hair. Is she sobbing? Yes, you realize, only because you stopped coughing and can hear her. An ache fills your chest, and what begins as a sniffle turns into a shudder.

_Hey,_ she says, pulling away to regard you. Her hair, a long mess of brown seaweed recently waving in the water, droops from her ears to her shoulders. Mermaid hair.

_Mom,_ the girl says, _is she okay? Is she going to be okay now?_ she asks again, wanting some of the attention that you're getting, and you don't want to meet her eyes but do anyway.

Mom doesn't look at her but instead looks at you. She asks how you're feeling, but you can't answer because your voice is hiding, refusing to come out.

_Is she going to be okay?_

_Be quiet!_ Mom says to the girl, who in return shrinks away.

Limp arms, weak legs—you're aware of it all, of the fatigue plaguing your body. It's like someone stripped you of the energy that animates your limbs, leaving you empty and turning you into a shell. Sleeping sounds like a good idea; a nap could help make things better. Maybe then you can escape the ache that's spreading from your chest outward.

The girl creeps back into view. She is curious, and you know she's not going away. She'll never go away.

_I'm tired,_ you say, and the words are a surprise even to you. How you managed to pick that phrase to begin with seems strange. You'd rather you asked a question, one of the hundreds waiting in line behind your lips.

Mom starts talking, talking to you in response. _Of course, baby,_ she says, still petting your head. _You've been through a lot, and your body's tired._

_Oh,_ you say.

_Is she going to live?_ the girl asks.

_Rachel?_ Mom says. _Would you be quiet for one second? I need a minute. Okay?_

Tears form, filling the eyes of the girl. Immediately she unravels, turning into a sobbing pile of flesh, so Mom ushers her closer. Mom hugs the both of you, and everyone sobs, and you only sob because they're sobbing.

When the sobbing has died down and Mom makes jokes, you feel able to look at the girl. You are no longer strangers, not after having shared a shedding of sadness and fear. She rubs her nose with the back of her hand, sniffling. You're close enough to see her eyelashes, thick around her eyes.

By now Mom has left, no longer worried or distraught about the current situation. The danger has passed. You're not dead, so she's okay. You're okay. Everything—everything's okay, and you're no longer near the water. In fact, you're at home, and she's nearby, keeping close. She's working in the garden, shoveling dirt.

_It's okay,_ you manage to say, your voice rough like gravel. _It's all okay,_ you say to her.

_I don't know,_ she says. _I'm scared it'll happen again._

_Well,_ you say to the girl, _it might, I guess._

_But he's not going to be there,_ she says.

_He, who?_

_The man who saved you._

_What? Who's that?_ you say. The thought balloons, becoming bigger than the room. It contains the fact that there is another person. A person who played a part, who kept you from drowning.

She points, and your eyes follow. She must mean the gray man, who is sitting on the park bench by the driveway. Over the top of his newspaper, he peers at you. You want to say something, but your voice runs away again, disappearing into a hole in the ground. The only thing to do is wait for it to come back.

The gray man drops his newspaper in his lap, so you can see his whole face. You don't want to stare—it's bad manners, Mom says—but you can't help it. His face is something you have to stare at.

The gray man's eyes lock on yours, and you can't look away. He opens his mouth, and you aren't ready for the words that come out.

Everything's dizzy, turning in circles and throbbing. There is a scratchy noise, and I try to ignore it, but it doesn't go away. It's a voice.

"Marina? Hey!"

"Um." My head is revolving on its own axis, and I don't have the strength to disrupt its motion. Then I feel a touch on my shoulder, noticing all four steely fingers with a hook for a thumb. I shrug away.

"Hey," Claire says, "you okay? Come on, get up."

I sit up. I lean against the couch and hug my knees.

"Why are you on the floor? And Marina," she says, frowning at the coffee table, "what happened here?"

I follow her gaze. Books and papers. A toothbrush. Paper towels, crumpled. And water everywhere. There's a terrible smell I try to identify, another familiar thing.

Claire picks up an upturned bottle and studies it. "I guess you knocked it over?"

"Knocked what?" I look at her holding the bottle. Then I scream. "Oh my god! Where is it?" I find the locket and kick it across the floor to the front door.

Claire flinches and gets on her feet. "What's gotten into you?" She looks toward the door and then to me again. "What's going on, Marina?"

I grab my knees and bury my face there. She crouches next to me and strokes my back. It's soothing, but it's not enough to make everything right again. I hug my knees tighter. After a few minutes I feel her get up and cross the room. I let my teeth chatter and fill my head with noise.

"Did the cleaning stuff work okay?" she says. Claire is standing by the door, trying to read the locket like a little book.

"Don't touch it!" I say.

"What?" Her eyes are open so wide that it's clear she's worried and tired and confused all at once.

"Something's not right!"

She looks at it, cocking her head.

"Don't—" I can't finish because my mouth gets stuck. I don't have the words to explain anything.

"Okay," she says. She sighs and bites her lip. "But I'm not going to leave it here. Let's just put it in a baggie," she says and goes into the kitchen to get one. When she comes back, she sets it on the table and crouches next to me.

"Can you throw it away?" I say. She asks if I'm sure, and I say yeah. "I think I fainted or something," I say. I hold up my right hand, looking for signs of phosphorescence, but it's gone. I don't even know how to explain that to Claire.

"Well," she says, "it reeks of ammonia in here. You've got to have better ventilation when you use stuff like that. How's your head now?"

"It hurts. I feel like shit," I say.

"Maybe we should go to the ER then." Claire studies my face. "Let me drive you—"

"No..."

We go back and forth about going to the hospital, but I repeat that I've had a long day and I forgot to eat anything. I just need to go to bed. Eventually we get too tired to go on and agree to check in with each other in the morning. Claire marches to bed, and I smoke three cigarettes before trying to go to sleep, but I can't rest or sit still or just lie there—I go outside again and have three or four more smokes, and I watch the sun come up.

I leave the house earlier than usual for work. I go to the store to pass the time, taking care of our normal necessities and stocking up as well. Claire and I go through lots of pasta and cup of noodles and tortillas as it is, so we might as well have extra stuff. I get a coffee and an energy drink and another pack of smokes on my way out. I load the rest of the groceries into the trunk, knowing they'll be fine until I get home later.

When I get to work, I help Mary clean the pool during the morning hours. I'm scheduled to leave at two thirty because Shell hasn't called in, but Mary tells me to stay on anyway. Both of us can work. It'll be fine because she needs to place orders for more disinfectant, among other things, so having both of us will be okay. While I'm manning the chair outside, Shell walks out of the office and looks at me, meeting my eyes. I wave, and she crosses the pool to me.

"Mary said both of us can work today," I say. "So, how's it going?"

"I just had an exam," she says, "and spent all night cramming for it. I just..." She stops to yawn, her eyes scrunching and her jaw dropping to reveal silver fillings in her back teeth. "Excuse me." Her hand shields her mouth. "I'm so tired." Her eyelids droop over her glazed eyes before she apologizes again, emphasizing how tired she is. Tired from tests and studying and writing papers. Tired from parties and tired from working. I nod while scanning the swimmers in the pool.

Shell walks a lap around the pool then comes back to stand by me at the lifeguard chair. Of course, there's another station she can man, but I know she doesn't really want to work. She never wants to work. Instead she wants to talk about her upcoming midterms. To me.

"You liking your classes okay, then? Even though you get, like, no sleep?" I say.

"Yeah, I do. It's nice to be in a classroom again. I think you'd like it, too," she says.

I shrug. "School didn't work out this term. I'm aiming to go back in the fall."

"Hmm." A pause, then she asks me what I want to study.

"I thought about being a dental assistant, or the X-ray technician program."

"That's a good one. I know a few people who are doing that," Shell says, running her fingers through her hair.

The truth was, though I applied for the radiology technician program, I didn't get in. I also don't mention wanting to go to beauty school. A couple years ago, Rachel and I talked about getting our certification and apprenticing with Mom, and the idea of us three working together made me feel excited, like I had a place to go. We'd be doing hair and nails. We'd serve wine to clients and sell makeup. When Rachel and I were really serious about it, I went shopping and found the perfect chairs for the lobby. Rachel liked them—they had pink velour upholstered seat cushions and clawed feet.

Rachel told Mom about our plan, but Mom was the opposite of enthused. She said no, get an education. School would be better because it will make other options available. Give us a leg up. So, instead of following up on beauty school, I went to community college. I only made it a term, though, since I can't afford it and don't want to take out loans. All I can see resulting from borrowing money is a lot of debt, and then what? Hope for a good job to pay it off? At least going into debt for school worked for Max, since he's got a job that pays, like, real money. Enough to make it worth the cost.

When closing time comes, Shell and I help Mary shut things down. We change into street clothes, and when we walk to our cars, I stop in front of my driver's side door, staring at the handle. My car isn't messy inside, but it isn't clean, either—I don't feel ready to get into it yet. Going back home isn't what I want to do. I look up to see Shell throwing things into her backseat.

"Shell," I say, waiting for her to look up at me, "want to go get a drink? It's on me."

She looks at me and nods after a pause. "I think I can use one." Then she drops her keys and picks them up. "Yes, yes please. Why don't you jump in my car? Let me just move some things first."

Shell rolls the windows down, and as we drive to Hawthorne, I breathe as much summer air as I can. It's full of pizza, Chinese food, hamburgers, Thai food—all sorts of things. We pass eight or nine places that are all packed, inside and outdoor seating both. We passed the Bridgeport Ale House a few blocks back, and Shell didn't want to go there, but now we decide to check it out since we're running out of choices. We find a place to park and walk inside.

The brewery is full, but there's seating at the bar. We sit on stools and look through the menu.

"You want to get the Cajun tots?" Shell says. "I think those are good, but they're a little spicy."

"Sure," I say. "Give me anything fried and I'll be golden." It occurs to me that I haven't eaten all day—nothing sounded good.

My phone buzzes. It's Claire.

_How are you?_ she says.

I look at my hand. It's just my hand.

_Good, thanks. I'm at Bridgeport with my coworker. Want to come?_

_Now? Maybe_ , she says.

"Who are you texting?" Shell says, leaning in to look at my phone.

"My roommate. I'm telling her we're here." I turn so she can't see my phone.

I say to Claire, _They have 3 IPAs on tap._

I wait for her to respond, but after a minute of no answer back I put my phone down. She probably doesn't want to come.

Shell looks at me. "Should we wait to order?"

"Hell no—I'm starving. Haven't eaten all day."

My phone lights up and shakes. It's Claire again. _KK. See u soon_ , she says. I tell Shell that Claire is coming to join us, and Shell says awesome. We look over the menu together, deciding what we want. When the server stops by, we order our beers, Cajun tots, pork sliders, and a basket of fries. We're thankful that she comes immediately with our beers. I'm so thirsty I drink mine up and order another before Claire arrives.

"Hey, stranger!" she says. I try to finish chewing my bite of a tiny pork slider before answering.

"Help yourself to whatever." I wave my hand over the food. I turn to Shell. "This is my roommate, Claire." They smile and shake hands. Apparently, they know each other from school and have even taken some of the same classes. While they talk about who's had which professor, the server takes my glass away and asks if I want another. I say yes, and it comes quickly.

I hold my new beer up. "Cheers," I say, "to friends and a ladies' night out." Our glasses clink together and beer dribbles off the side of mine because I toasted a little too hard—oops.

Someone appears at Claire's elbow, saying hi to her. They talk about the O-Chem quiz from earlier, agreeing how rough it was. He has short dark hair and freckles, and his jacket is brown. I glance at him and then look back down at my beer.

"What are you doing here, then?" Claire says to him. "Unwinding?"

"My brother's in town, so I'm here with him." He nods toward a booth by the window. "You guys celebrating or something?"

Claire says not really—just getting out for a much needed beer—and turns to introduce us. She says this is Justin, and they have class together. I smile, but I'm nervous because he's cute and it's hard looking at someone like that for too long.

As their conversation shifts to their chemistry professor, Shell and I turn toward each other and start chatting about the baseball game showing on the nearest TV. I'm doing as little work possible so I can pay attention to Claire's conversation with the Justin guy. Shell does the same—she jumps into their conversation, adding that she has the same chemistry professor next term.

"I've got to find my brother," Justin says, "but it was nice to meet you guys." He looks me in the eye. I shrink. "Bye, Claire." He smiles and does a salute-wave before walking off. When he's out of earshot, I lean into Claire.

"Where did he come from?" I say while pressing my elbow into her side. "You should snag that one."

Claire sips her beer then smiles. "He's nice, but I like his lab partner better. We have O-Chem together."

"I figured as much." I look to Shell because she's raising her glass in the air.

"Cheers!" she says.

"To what?" Claire says while raising her glass.

"Ladies' night and midterms!"

"Sure," I say. "Hey, where's my beer?"

"You drank it already."

"Oh, right..." The other two toast without me, and I pat down my pockets—my smokes aren't in any of them.

"Um, has anyone seen my purse?" I say.

"Your purse? It's on the floor. Hold on." Shell disappears under the bar and reappears with it.

"Thanks," I say. "I'll be back in a sec." I float down the corridor to the entryway, where I leave. Outside it's now dark, and the air has turned velvety. On the corner there's a group of people smoking, and I drift toward them. We introduce ourselves to one another, and they tell me they were just talking about a stand-up routine recently released online. I listen and pick through my memories, finding the right one, and I perform a reenactment. Everyone likes it, and the big man who's part of this group laughs. Someone gives me a clove. I take a drag. The cinnamon-and-sugar flavor is so good.

I look down at my fingers. "Damn. I sure smoked this thing fast."

"No," the big man says. "Ben didn't want it any more. You said you'd finish it."

"Oh." I think about it and remember. "Oh yeah. Said he couldn't handle it." Breathe in again. "Damn, this shit's like candy."

I finish the clove and go inside, looking for my people. Where did they go? They're not at the bar anymore. Where did they move to? The room echoes, and I turn around, looking for their faces and their blonde hair—both Claire and Shell are blonde. They'll look like twins. Thank god I hear my name, and I follow the source to the booth where they're now sitting with the boys. Claire gets up and tells me to sit down. I say okay and do it. I slide in across the vinyl, and I'm now sitting by the Justin guy.

"Hi," I say. I notice his face, how strong his cheekbones are, and I look away, turning to Claire on my other side.

"Hi," she says. Her teeth are white and pearly like a movie star's.

"Did I ever tell you how nice your teeth are?" I say.

"Maybe."

"You have nice teeth."

"Thank you. I have my orthodontist to thank."

"I think we need a pitcher," says the boy across the table, the one Shell's sitting next to. He sees me and introduces himself, but I can't hear him. His name is Abe or A.J. or something with an _A_. I smile and nod.

The Justin guy's arm is on the top of the backrest. I can't see it, but I know it's there. It's close to my head.

"So, how do you know Claire?" he says.

"We live together. We've known each other forever."

He drinks his beer. I wish I had a beer to drink right now. I comb my hair behind my ear. He says something, but I can't hear him.

"I think I know you from somewhere," he says, repeating himself.

"From where?"

"From the pool, I think."

"You go to the pool?" I say. "Are you on the swim team?" I turn to face him now, and I notice his eyes are light, hazel with darts of green and gold. He nods. "Mike is such a douche," I say. "He yells at everyone for everything."

"God, he _is_ a douche! Like the other day when we didn't make our goal time, he took us aside and gave us this spiel about putting in 100 percent or else we shouldn't be there."

I can see Mike doing this, Mike in his tracksuit and T-shirt that matches his baseball cap. Justin and I laugh together, joking about how Mike wears sunglasses indoors with Croakies. We don't feel like strangers anymore.

When he lifts his beer to his lips, I turn to Claire. In a whisper I say how cruel she is, making me sit next to Justin. She giggles, covering her mouth. Does she like putting me on the spot? I ask her, because two can play that game.

I turn to Justin. "I hear you have a lab partner," I say. "Claire's one of his biggest admirers."

"Hey!" Claire's elbow hits my ribs.

"The one you sit with in class in O-Chem, I think—"

"Well," my roommate says, "we came over here because Marina kept looking over at you, saying how cute you are."

"Claire!"

Beer squirts through Justin's lips. He laughs into his beer glass.

"Too bad your partner isn't here. Claire needs an introduction."

Claire grits her teeth and pulls on my arm, shushing me. Justin yells across the table. I can't hear what the boys are saying, but Shell's smiling, so I guess she can.

Claire turns to Justin's brother. "So, which one gets into more trouble? You or Justin?"

"That'll have to be him. You see," the guy says, leaning back into the seat, "it's my job to make sure doesn't embarrass himself, which is a constant problem."

Their eyes meet, and they laugh a way that's loud but also very hush-hush, like sharing a private message. I get it—like when Rachel and I exchange wide-eyes or tight smiles to pass along what we really think. It's a sibling thing.

And suddenly I feel sick, witnessing the here and now unravel before my eyes. I see Rachel, flashes of her face, bits and pieces of childhood memories. And then the recent events—the withdrawal, the sadness she tried to hide, and the day I got the phone call, how everything caught on fire—it all comes at once, piling up on me.

How does it happen this fast? In an instant I'm weak, vulnerable—I have to get away.

"I've got to go to the bathroom," I say. "Excuse me." I hope I don't have to say anything else—I don't know if I can manage speaking another word.

Claire takes her time letting me out. I try to not give myself away when I slide across the squeaky seat. I get up with caution and go slow because I'm unsteady. My head is heavy. The floor is on rollers. I open the bathroom door and close it, feeling thankful it's the private kind with a chunky lock. I claw at it with swollen hands, and when it's locked I turn and lean against the thick door as it inches up my back until my butt is on the floor and my legs give way, dull and lifeless. On my thigh there's a stain where I spilled beer a lifetime ago, but I don't care because I'm on the floor and my body is shutting down from being sad and terrible, and I'm sad and terrible too.

Through the door someone says my name, but I don't answer. I don't want them to find me. Not ever. Maybe I'll hide until nobody's watching and will sneak out, leaving through the side door. I'll run away, making shadows under starlight.

"Marina, are you in there?"

"Occupied," I say. I wait until the knocking is gone. I breathe. I wipe my face with my sleeve and finish sniffling before I climb up to the sink. The face in the mirror is splotchy and puffy, and around the eyes there are speckles of rubbed-off eyeliner.

"You are drunk," I say to the mirror. I wet a paper towel and wipe my face. I don't want to go anywhere, but I know I have to leave the bathroom at some point. With that I take a few deep breaths to prepare myself, and soon I'm ready. The bathroom door creaks when I open it.

In the bar the crowd has thinned out. Chairs are scattered in between tables with abandoned glasses, and crumpled napkins litter the floor. It smells like stale beer and burgers and french fries. Many people have left, and the bar is ready to sleep.

"Marina," someone says. I turn around, and it's Claire walking toward me. "I thought we lost you."

"I'm the bathroom," I say. "I mean, in the bathroom." Claire has my purse and puts it on my shoulder. "I was in the bathroom." I blink hard, and I feel my head swiveling on my shoulders. "Hey, where is everybody?"

"Closing out their tabs. It's late. We better get going."

"I drank too much." I grab my temples. "Shit—my car's at work. Shit."

"We'll pick up your car tomorrow, okay? You're going to ride home with me."

"You okay to drive?"

"I'm fine. Let's pay and get you home."

"You're the nicest person, Claire. The nicest person. Whoa." Behind my forehead is a bowling ball, heavy and dense. Claire says I should sit and she'll be right back. I find a chair. It feels warm on my butt.

"Marina?"

I look up. It's Justin. "Hey," I say. "Where's everyone else? They're gone?"

"Shell went already, but Claire is taking you home."

"She told me. Because I shouldn't drive. Not like I can, because my car's not here." I blink hard and take a deep breath. I look back up at Justin. "Sorry, I'm drunk."

He smiles, and I feel more stupid. "I've had my share of those nights. Don't you worry."

"I'm so drunk. Sorry."

"It's okay. Just take it easy. I'll see you around?" His hand squeezes my shoulder. "It was nice meeting you."

"You too."

I want to say more, but he's gone before I get the chance. All of a sudden Claire is pulling me by the elbow, and we float to her car, and I sink into it. I tell Claire she's the nicest person. I say thank you. I say she's so thoughtful and caring and responsible. I say sorry for being drunk and I wish I'd eaten earlier in the day because I think I'm going to be sick. When we make it home, I go upstairs to the bathroom, where I camp out and puke. Claire helps me take my shoes off, and I'm sick only one more time, so she puts me to bed and says, "Goodnight, Marina," and the buzzing in my head makes me feel gross, but I think I'll fall asleep before being sick again. I do fall asleep, but as I nod off my arms feel something hard under my pillow. The locket? No, not that, because it'll make the sick feeling come back, the worst kind of sick feeling. It's only a moment that I'm scared because I step forward into sleep without looking back, my thoughts breaking apart like seagulls abandoning the shore as they startle, taking flight and scattering in the wind.

# 4

I wake up to find Claire pushing my shoulder, rolling me on my side, and I tell her to stop, please. My stomach is as strong as tissue paper—if I move too fast, it'll tear.

"Hey," she says. She scoots farther up on the bed, and the mattress dips. "I've got to leave, and I assume you've got to work, so if you want a ride, better get up. Now."

I sit up. I look at my alarm clock. I think about what the time means. "Um, okay. Yeah." My mouth is sticky. I smack my lips together and scratch my head, still feeling drunk.

"Get ready," Claire says. She stands, the bed squeaking as she gets up. Over her shoulder she says, "You've got fifteen minutes, or I'm leaving your ass behind."

I want a cigarette first but know better. I take a shower and look for clothes, but many of them are dirty. After tearing my room apart, I have to settle for my least worn sweater and the socks I wore the day before yesterday. At least my jeans aren't atrocious. I use a lot of coconut lotion on my arms and legs to cover up everything else—I'll just be uncomfortable today.

Claire drops me off at my car in the pool's parking lot. I tell her thanks, she's the best. When she's gone I pull out a cigarette, my last one, so I walk to the nearest store for another pack. Inside I get a coffee and a poppy seed muffin. I leave the shop and stop outside the door to juggle my things so both hands are freed up to condense the pack.

When I clock in, I find Mary huddled over her desk. She's busy with the pool schedule, mumbling about balancing the next swim meet with public hours, faculty hours, student hours, all the hours there are. While we're talking she cracks open a can of soda, gulping like she's just run a marathon.

I leave the office and take my post up at the lifeguard chair. Across the pool I see Justin.

With his goggles and cap, it's easy to get him confused with the others. They're all wearing the same tiny shorts. I see plenty of guys in Speedos at work, but knowing who this guy is makes me feel anxious. He's in shape.

Mike dribbles pep talk, giving instructions that turn into shouts. From my chair I can see the tendons in his neck pulling tight under his skin as he emphasizes the fact that the swim meet is two weeks away. He hollers at his team, and they keep swimming. After practice is over, Justin does what I was hoping and dreading he'd do—he comes to talk to me. He takes off his cap and goggles. He breathes through his mouth and slicks his hair out of his eyes.

"How's it going?" he says.

"Okay." I smile, pausing like an idiot because I have to think of something to say. To fill the silence, I reposition my whistle on my lanyard, laying it centered on my chest. He pauses too, still catching his breath from practice, and I know I have to break the silence or else I'll miss my chance. "I'm still kind of foggy. I drank a lot last night."

"You told me." He smiles, still panting. "Feeling any better?"

"Somewhat. It was a rough morning—I could hardly get up. Work is easy, though." I sigh and toy with my whistle, thinking about when I used it last. I hate the sound—it's so shrill, it makes me cringe hearing it. But I had to use it at open swim a few months ago when some kids were running around the pool playing tag. I remember because that was my first day back after...

"So," I say, "how are you feeling about the meet? Mike wants to make sure no one's forgetting about it."

"I know, right?" He rolls his eyes and scratches the back of his head. "It'll be fine. Everyone works hard, but it's not like we have any Olympic hopefuls here. I'm feeling good about my relay team."

"Which stroke are you doing?"

"Backstroke."

"You'll be fine."

He shifts his weight from one leg to the next. "Thanks," he says. "I'm more worried about my O-Chem midterm. I didn't do so hot on the quiz this week. Really kicked my ass, you know?" His eyebrows go up, making his face look serious. "Got to focus on the midterm, or I'll have to repeat the course."

I nod and cross my arms. "Well, don't let me hold you up. Go study."

"Maybe after midterms and when the meet is over, we can rendezvous at the bar," he says, shrugging. "You know..."

"Yeah," I say, and it hits me that he's _asking_ me to get a drink. Like, go on a date. I smile at the floor and pull my hair behind my ear. "I'd like that. Why don't you bring your lab partner, and I'll bring Claire?"

"Yeah," he says. I watch him looking at the pool. He turns back to me. "Sounds good."

"After the swim meet. Awesome." After he says good-bye and walks away, I want to wriggle free of my skin.

When I get home, I do laundry in an effort to avoid another clean-clothes crisis. Then I make a quesadilla, and when I get sour cream from the fridge, I think about finishing the open bottle of wine, but I cringe at the thought of drinking. My stomach's still on the rocks from last night. The quesadilla makes me feel better, and I turn on the TV and lay down on the couch. Claire will be coming home soon—I want to tell her how I scored us a double date.

The longer I'm on the couch, the less I want to get up. I tell myself after the next commercial I'll get up, have a smoke. Then the next commercial comes, and I wait. My eyes want to rest, so I let them. I'll get up at the next commercial.

I wonder what Justin's doing right now. It's funny how I didn't notice him before, because I've been seeing him for months. He's been doing laps, jumping from the blocks during practice between the hours of one and three on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, and between two and four on Wednesday and Friday. Maybe it'll be a regular thing, seeing him at the pool. Maybe he'll even come to open swim—some of the team members do that. They want to get extra laps in, more time to perfect their form. I don't know how they have time for practice, for school, and then for more practice, but they do, and some of them come in multiple times a week. Is Justin one of those frequent swimmers? He might be. That means we'd be running into each other casually in the parking lot or at the poolside or the locker room entryway. He'll ask me how it's going, and I'll say, _Good, but I need to go do some laps._

_Now?_ he'll say, and I'll answer, _Yeah_ over my shoulder like it's nothing. Like it's a breeze.

Practice will be over already. The showers will be hissing through the doors of the locker room, but everyone will file out after. The blocks will be clear and the lanes empty. I'll walk to the middle block because I'll have decided it's my favorite. Up there I'll stretch and get loosened up. I'll be limber before coiling and tensing, crouching on the block, waiting for the moment when I ignite, flying before slicing the water's surface with my fingertips. I'll do a few laps.

When I take a break, I'll see Justin there, on my block. I'll lift my goggles.

_Good form,_ he'll say _, but I'm faster._ His head will tilt to the side, his eyebrow arching as he meets my eyes.

_Yeah, wise guy? Why don't you put your money where your mouth is?_ I'll say. _You're all talk, no walk._

I'll climb out of the pool and readjust my cap. I'll slide my goggles on again.

_You're stalling,_ he'll say. _And your tattoo is an unfair advantage._

I'll want him to think I don't notice his eyes flicking at me—to my hand, glowing like starlight—but I'll notice every second. Only when I'm ready, I'll look up. I'll tell him to get on his mark.

_Why do you decide when we start?_ he'll say. His goggles, dark orbs projecting under his eyebrows, will shroud nothing.

_Because I'm the lifeguard,_ I'll say. _Unless you're stalling? And no, I don't have any unfair advantages, mister. Are you scared that you're going to lose?_ I'll smile, almost snickering. A real smarty-pants.

_On the blocks,_ he'll say.

Consenting to the race, acknowledging it's on for real, we'll get poised. We'll get ready.

_Get set—_

_Wait,_ I'll say, turning my head to him. _What do I get if I win? We never went over terms._

_What do you want_? he'll say.

His words pulse through and prickle my skin. I bite my lip to keep quiet, to be steadfast.

_I'm not telling,_ I'll say, _since it depends on what you want if I lose, wise guy._

_Wise guys don't give away anything,_ he'll say. Squaring his shoulders to the pool, to the race against me, he'll sink into seriousness.

_You must want to win. Wise guys like winning_.

The corner of his lip jerks. _Get set,_ he'll say.

_You're serious,_ I'll say as I bend down, following his lead. Together, we are replicas of each other's bodies, holding the same position, using the same exact muscles. While touching the edge of the block, we'll wait in agony, trapped within a bittersweet universe contained by a single word.

_Go._

In the water I'll be frictionless, gliding. When I surface my strokes will be intentional, exact, every fiber moving with precision, with graceful strength and needy speed, and at the end of the race, it'll be a tie.

_How do we do this?_ I'll say, with my arms and legs waving in the water, keeping me afloat. _If there aren't winners, there aren't spoils. What's a wise guy say to that?_

_Well, if you won,_ he'll say, _what were you going to demand?_

His words will echo through me. I'll have to bite my lip to respond. _You first,_ I'll say. But he'll insist I go first because that's cheating. I'll affirm I'm not a cheater. He's just as bad.

_Okay, okay,_ he'll say, showing me his palms in peaceful defeat. _Fine. I'll go first, but you have to come closer._

_Closer?_

He'll nod, waving me to come. I'll float to the lane divider. My arms will be hanging over the rope.

_Is this close enough? I don't think wise guys should be trusted._

He'll hang on the rope, and I'll notice his hands on either side of mine, our fingers touching. He'll lean forward, his face coming so close to mine I can feel the tiny cloud of heat hovering above his skin.

_I want to fuck you until you scream,_ he'll say.

Looking into his bright eyes, I'll gasp. We'll again be caught in a closed universe, living within a star.

_But we're in public. Someone'll see us,_ I'll say.

When he'll grin, I'll grin back. I'll say, _You're going to have to catch me first._

I'll let go of the rope, becoming a torpedo headed for the bottom. Looking up, I'll see him above, only two yards behind, but he'll be fast, so I'll be fast, and I'll glide to the deep end, maintaining a lead that ends after a tug on my ankle. I'll spin around, and he'll pin me to the bottom of the pool. I won't be able to go anywhere. I'll laugh without opening my mouth, and he'll snicker and nuzzle my neck. His fingers will creep down my stomach, around my side, and he'll tease me.

_Better catch me, now,_ he'll say. And he'll let go, leaving me hungry and dizzy in a haze of crystal beads that I discard and smash in order to catch up.

He'll almost be at the edge of the pool when I grab his ankles, yanking him off the stepladder. After falling back in the water, he'll grab me. Pressed together, our lips will thaw, and he'll pull me out of the pool, to the edge. His hands will probe, and I'll move my swimsuit out of the way, pulling it to the side, and together we'll be warm. So warm. And by the end of it, he'll make me scream.

Friday is almost a repeat of Thursday, except my stomach has improved. I take my time relaxing and doing more laundry before going to work. When I get there, I run into Shell in the locker room.

"Hey," I say. "How's it going?" I open my locker and pull out my suit and sandals.

"Tired. I didn't sleep last night because of my bio exam." She slips a strap off her shoulder, and I turn look at the ground, locating my sandals and my purse. I peel off my shirt and the rest of my clothes and step into my cold suit.

"So, did you have fun the other night?" I say. I find a hair tie in my purse.

She says she did.

"I had a good time," I say. I bend over, letting my hair hang to the ground so I can gather it and wrap it in a high bun. I stand back up with my neck now bare. "I might've had a little too much fun."

"You drink a lot," she says while brushing her hair and staring into the mirror. "And you really like smoking—that's so gross."

Standing behind her, I look at her backside, at her slight frame. Then I look at her in the mirror's reflection. Under the nearby lights, she looks sickly and pale: her skin and hair are the same shade, barely distinguishable from one another. Only her tired eyes stand out against her face, a bleached disk. I notice her stringy arms and the tiny, slim muscles that are a little too well defined.

She combs through her limp hair, tilting her head to her shoulder, on the verge of whipping it around like in a shampoo commercial. It surprises me that she keeps talking—and that I stick around for it.

"And what do you think of that guy?" she says to me, still brushing her hair.

"Who?" I say. "Justin? He was really nice."

She rolls her eyes, flips her hair to the other shoulder, and sighs as if she's frustrated with what I said. I ask if she means the brother.

"His name's Abe, you know. You'd have caught that if you weren't so trashed."

"Yeah," I say, "okay." I close my locker, the closing clang replaced with a muffle. Before I exit the locker room, I stop, grabbing the edge of the wall. "And Shell?"

"What?"

"Now that you have the whole bathroom to yourself, you'd better take a second to go shove your finger down your throat. It's about time for that, right?" I pat my stomach. "I can see your lunch. It's starting to show."

She turns to look at me, her face screwed up and her eyes big. "You're a dirty Mexican."

I turn to leave, flipping her off. Each step toward the office is heavy, but I'm too strong to be slowed down with all the steam in my muscles propelling my bones to go faster, to push harder. At a moment's notice I could break into a sprint, crash through the glass, and grow wings. I could fly away, but with each step to the office, I remind myself to be proud, to ignore the grip wrenching my insides. In the office I march straight to the time card punch, mumbling hello to Mary.

"Hey Marina," Mary says. "Where've you been?"

"Sorry, traffic was really bad. Construction." I slide my card through the punch. "And Friday's always the worst, you know."

"Well, get out there." She waves her hand, shooing me away. "Practice has already started, and Mike is on some kind of tirade."

Today, lots of swimmers, even Justin, flinch at their coach's shouting. Mike says they're not fast enough. The women's relay team needs to get their timing right, dammit; otherwise, they'll get disqualified. Don't make dumb errors—those are the worst. A false start means all that hard work gets thrown away. When there's a break, I catch Justin's gaze. He rolls his eyes, and we agree that it's especially ridiculous today.

Partway through practice Mike dresses down and says he's going to show some people proper form. Because if you don't have good form, you won't get a good time. It's that simple, he says to the group of swimmers he's singled out, treating them like middle schoolers at a swim lesson.

Since those who weren't reprimanded are still swimming, all the lanes are filled. Mike is in the middle lane, warming up. He does a couple laps. I glance to the far lane, and there, the red cap—it's Justin. My eyes follow him from one end to the other, his long arms wheeling through the water, reaching over his head. I wonder what it'd be like if we had the pool to ourselves for real.

In the corner of my eye I see a disturbance, a knot forming in the fabric of the water. Mike is in the middle of the pool. He's slowed down and is surrounded by splashing water. Maybe he's doing this on purpose, trying to make a point by stopping. He likes testing people. He also enjoys opportunities to antagonize them later.

I stand up, grab the life preserver by my feet, and wait, watching for signs. It can't be; he can't be drowning. That doesn't make sense, so I keep waiting. If it's a false alarm, well, I'd be the biggest moron in the building, and Mike would take the effort to remind me or my boss, I'm sure.

But his ear touches the water, followed by his nose.

Fuck.

I blow my whistle and run to the edge, diving in. The water feels warm running through my hair, but I brush it aside and paddle. I bump into a girl whose eyes I catch briefly.

"Move!" I say. I keep paddling and grab Mike under the arm and shove my life preserver underneath him.

My shouts are garbled by splashes and echoes and invisible walls. I drag Mike and feel a sudden thrust—someone else is helping, a guy. Together we drag Mike to the pool ledge, and I keep shouting. Another swimmer appears, whose arms rise to hold the coach on the preserver while me and the guy lurch out of the pool—water drops and wet feet smack the cement floor. He helps lift Mike's limp body from the water, and thank god more arms appear, because out of the water, everything quadruples in weight.

"Okay!" I say and then tell them to stop and put him down. I roll Mike on his side. I pry his mouth open so my fingers can feel for obstructions, but there isn't anything inside but teeth and a tongue. Some water leaks out.

"Mike?" I say. "Mike? Hey!"

He doesn't respond, so I move him back. I feel his ribs, find the right spot on the sternum, cover one hand with the other, and push, making his chest cave under my weight. The bones, the rib cage—it's all so rigid, the parts grinding, torquing against one another as I rush in, but I know I need to push harder. Chest compressions for an adult need to be two inches deep.

I push harder into his sternum, ignoring the popping sounds underneath, hoping I don't crush anything important because I'd never do this on a conscious person. Part of me cringes, wanting to walk away and have nothing to do with it.

Someone calls my name from afar. The voice gets closer until it's next to me. It's Mary's voice, and she has the first aid kit. I keep pumping and counting, but I think I'm losing track because I'm also trying to remember the right songs. In first aid class they give you a handout on yellow paper with diagrams and text boxes, each square containing information, tips, and instructions about chest compressions. You have to do them at a rate of a hundred times per minute, so pick one of these songs written down on that blurry list. I pick "Staying Alive." It fits, doesn't it? Staying alive.

Mary talks. "Let me do the breathing," she says. We are side by side, our heads level with one another. I do three more compressions. I look at Mary, and she leans to his mouth and listens, then does one breath. Two breaths.

Okay, she says, and I start the compressions again. My arms are learning the rhythm. I don't know if I can keep going that fast, though I have to.

Step back! Mary says, swatting at someone outside my peripheral vision. She says something I can't make out. I know she wants to do the breathing again. Okay, I say, and she dives close to count out more breaths. I do compressions. It's time for the AED, she says. I need to stop for a second so Mary can stick the electrodes to his chest, but I keep pushing because I'm stuck, bolted down like a pile driver shoving itself into the ground, a machine that has only one purpose and that is doing this, pushing and pushing and pushing, trying to keep the flimsy man under my palms alive.

# 5

I sit on the door stoop with a cigarette. When it's done I have another, and I keep smoking, lighting a new cigarette until I lose track. When I pull out the last one in the pack, I realize I've smoked a lot. Too much. I'll have to get another pack soon—maybe first thing tomorrow morning. Maybe sooner than that.

I did the right thing today. I tell myself that because Justin says so. And there was that girl who helped me at the beginning—she said I did the right thing too. But I know what Mary was thinking. I know what she wanted to say, what she might say later.

Again and again, I see the replays. The worst is when, instead of seeing what happened, I see points of failure: I don't do compressions deep enough or I do them too slowly, I forget to first turn the victim on his side, or I don't find the right place on the sternum. The paramedics interrupt me by peeling my arms away and tugging me from the body so room can be made for a giant black bag that crackles when filled.

Claire's car pulls up to the curb and stops. She gets out, hauling a bag of groceries and her backpack.

"Hi," she says over the top of the brown paper bag. "Got us some stuff."

I want another cigarette but know I don't have any more. The one in my hand I put out, rubbing it against the porcupine's face. I open the door for Claire, and she says thanks. Then she asks how's it going, how I'm doing. I mumble, telling her I'm fine. Things are fine. I follow her to the kitchen and open the cabinet above the microwave to see what's inside.

"You want cocoa?" I say. "We still have some."

"Sure." She puts away groceries, and I microwave two mugs of water. While I make the cocoa, stirring the lumps in the powder away, I realize I don't know how to begin. I don't know what to say or how to say it. I don't know if it'll be easier to say nothing at all.

When we sit down on the couch, she tells me about her upcoming exams. There's O-Chem and Physiology, which are the hard courses. She's studying as much as she can, because the midterms are half her grade. I nod and smile and forget what she's talking about. My feet are tucked underneath my legs, and I blow at my mug. The steam flutters away and then bounces against my face.

"Are you okay?" Claire says after shifting in her seat to face me.

"Yeah," I say. "Well, I'm not sure." I take a sip. The water is still too hot, so I blow on it again. "I'm fine."

"What is it? Did something happen? Anything I should know about?"

I sit for a little while, staring at the coffee table. "There's good news and not so good news. What first?"

Claire doesn't hesitate. "Bad," she says.

"Okay." I think about it for a second, about how to start. "I did CPR today. On a person."

Her lips crack open, and she breathes through her mouth. "Are they okay?"

"Kind of, I think so. It was the swim team coach. He had a heart attack or something when he was in the pool and started drowning. I should've spotted it before he actually went under—"

"But you got him out? You did it?"

"There were others," I say, "who helped me get him out of the pool. I started trying to do it. To revive him. I think I did it okay, but my arms, my whole body's sore. The whole thing drained me, and..."

"And what?" she says.

I look at my drink, focusing on the ripples. "It's just that he almost died. He was an inch away from it. If I'd messed up one more thing, he wouldn't have woken up. And that would've been another person," I say while studying my free hand, upturned, "that would've slipped right through my fingers."

"But he didn't, Marina. You gave him a second chance."

"Yeah, I know, but it's not that." I take a deep breath, then exhale out my nose in a hurry. "It's that things could've been different. You know what I mean?" I look at my knuckles, straightening and unstraightening my fingers. They crack a little. "Don't you ever think about that, about how something was so close to being a different way? How everything had to be in place at that specific moment for it to happen the way it did?"

"Like the Butterfly Effect?"

"Kind of." I think about it, wondering if it's the same thing. "I don't know," I say. "It's a little different than that."

"The net sum is, the guy lived. You should think about that, okay? It's what happened."

"Yeah," I say, wishing she understood. "You're right." I drink my cocoa in gulps now that it's cooled off. I don't want to keep listening to Claire talk because nothing will come out right, but I don't want to be alone, either. I stay on the couch, sitting still.

"You said there's good news?" Claire says.

"Good news?" For a second I can't remember, but then it comes back, and my spirits lift. "We're going on a double date," I say, glancing up at her. "Hey, don't look at me like that—Justin and his lab partner, the one you like so much."

"How?" she says, her forehead furrowing. She leans back slightly and regards me.

"He's on the swim team. My shifts are during practice."

"Right, of course." She leans into the couch and props her elbows on the armrest. "I think I've missed some things," she says.

I fill her in on what's happened, including the pool. And Shell's reaction to me today, which I'd forgotten until now.

"She said that? I thought she seemed snooty, really high maintenance. That reinforces my impression of her, but why would she attack you like that? I thought she was into the brother."

I shrug. "That's what I thought, but I think she's one of those people who's used to being the center of attention."

"Yep. She's probably jealous, since Justin was interested in you, not her. "

I curl tighter into the side of the couch. "You think so?"

"Marina!" She nudges me with her foot. "Of course he is. Why else would he ask you on a date?"

"He didn't really use the word _date_."

"If a guy asks to see you again, I'm calling it a date. And besides," she says, her voice softening, "how did you get me involved?"

"I thought it'd be a good chance for you to hang out with that guy."

"You didn't think I could handle that on my own?"

"Do I have to answer that? Okay, stop glaring. I thought it'd be fun, and I know you're shy."

"That's not true."

I laugh. "Liar."

We finish our cocoa and talk about the double date, about Claire's midterms, and about my mom's birthday coming up. We put on a movie, but halfway through Claire starts yawning, covering her mouth. Each time she apologizes, and I say it's okay. Eventually she stumbles off to bed, and I think about finishing the movie by myself. Five minutes later, though, I turn it off and get up for a smoke. Then I realize I have none left—I smoked all my cigarettes, the rest of the pack. For a second I think about running out to get more but decide against it. I go upstairs too, to turn in.

In bed I pull the covers over my head and focus on breathing. I can't help but think about Mike's awkward splashing, his hands slapping the water, and his mouth opening wide for oxygen. From his body, life had escaped, leaving it limp, like a deflated balloon. At that I pull the blanket tighter around myself and curl into the fetal position, trying to squeeze the images out of my head, leaving no more space for them. But it's no good; you don't always get to choose what you think about.

I see myself useless, treading water, while his head bobs above the surface before sinking below. In some rounds I reach him but can't tow his body to safety because I'm too weak and slow. In some replays I get help from onlookers, but under their wide-eyed stares I get nervous and freeze, forgetting what to do next.

Then Mary drops down beside me. We switch jobs, she compressing and I breathing, so we don't get tired, because if we don't stick with it, Mike dies. We continue, trading again to avoid fatigue, and when it's my turn for compressions, the chest is the same size but more delicate, less boxy. I realize it's a woman's chest—Rachel's chest, in fact, and like a trampoline her sternum flexes and cracks under my force. I wince for fear of crushing my sister's diaphragm. After all, she's died once already.

The anxiety grows, but I punch it down. It lunges up again, though. One more compression. Another compression. I start shouting. _Wake the fuck up!_ I say. I grab her shoulders and rattle her body, shouting again, before Mary interrupts. _What are you doing?_ she says. _You can't quit now, you dummy._

_She'll be a goner,_ I say, _I don't want to mess it up because...because...she's my sister._

Mary's eyes grow into golf balls. She snarls, _Stop wasting time, woman. Keep going!_ The prickly words dig in, urging me to follow through, to press on, to shake that heart muscle because it needs a kick in the ass.

_Wake the fuck up,_ I say again to Rachel. With the heels of my hands I push into her chest, trying to compel her heart to do something. To do what hearts do, to pump the blood. To keep you going. To keep life inside the body rather than let it escape. When at last Rachel moves, I scoot back to give her room—to give me room—while she coughs up water. She brings her elbows to her face, hiding behind blotchy forearms.

_Hey, Rachel,_ I say, touching her knee. _Are you all right?_ The heavy air makes me talk slowly, each word its own question, its own risk. Talking to Rachel after so long is like courting a feral animal. I've struggled to get this close, waiting for the right moment to creep forward another inch.

Her head lolls on the floor, and her eyes drift side to side, shifting. Her brow scrunches tight. _Who are all these people?_ she says. Her voice is rough, filled with holes that whistle when air drives through them. I don't answer her, because I don't know, either. I scoot closer to check her pulse.

She yanks her hand away. _Stop prodding me. I'm not some cow,_ she says.

_Well, sit up, then. Can't lay here all day._

_Screw that, it's the weekend. I'll lay here as long as I bloody well please._

_Quit being a pain in the ass, would you?_ I say.

Rachel is stubborn, has always been so, very resistant to suggestion. Things always need to be her idea, done her way. That's fine and all, but sometimes there isn't enough time for indulgences like that.

I try to convince her again. _Come on, let's go,_ I say. I reach toward her, but she swats at me, so I back off. I watch her lying on the ground. I give her space. I'll give her time, I decide. I wait until she's ready to go because patience is a virtue, I remind myself. Just as much a virtue as...well, that's the only one they talk about. I'm sure there are others.

Finally, Rachel gets up and brushes herself off. I follow her lead, getting to my feet too. We stand together while everyone else fades away, dissolving. They become something of the past.

_So?_ she says, her voice upturned. She crosses her arms and shifts her weight. _Is this where you work or something?_

_As a matter of fact, yeah,_ I say. _I work here, so you have to listen to me. If you don't, I'll kick you out_.

_Oh, please,_ she says, her eyebrows inching up her forehead. _You would never do that._ She looks at me again. _Are you seriously saying you'd throw me out? Like a stray cat? That's bitchy,_ she says.

_Are you crazy?_ _I had to resuscitate you, like, five minutes ago, so you had better do what I say around here. Got it_? I glare at her and cross my arms in front of my chest, trying to give weight to my words.

_Okay, okay,_ she says. _One for you. Happy now? It's not like I've done anything wrong._

_Maybe you should take me seriously for once,_ I say.

_Or what? Oh, whatever,_ she says, flicking her wrist. _I'll just go drown myself again._

I yell at her. I tell her it's not funny.

_Take it easy, man._ She shields herself with raised hands, palms facing me. _Just joking—don't get your panties in a twist_.

_That's kind of unlikely, since I'm wearing a one piece._

Rachel looks at my swimsuit, studying it up and down. She snickers. _Aren't you cold? Because I'm freezing here._

I answer her, telling her like it is. I say, _You were dead earlier, so that's not a surprise._

_Don't say that! You're such a brat, you know? And stop rolling your eyes_. She turns on her heel, looking out at the pool. I watch her, waiting for the next catastrophe to take shape. I really hope she doesn't jump into the pool again, that she doesn't die a second time.

Rachel breaks the silence. _Come on, let's get out of here,_ she says, whispering.

_Now?_

_Yeah. Now._

And we leave out the side door. We walk down the street, following the river. The sun is bright and warm, and when we approach the water I tread through it, smiling at the cool kiss around my ankles, the chilled ribbons between my toes. We wave at those on the other bank, the picnickers. The beer drinkers with portable barbecues filled with meaty smoke. We think about stopping to join them but decide against it because the men are too old or too young. Half a mile later I realize I forgot my purse and my phone and everything important, but Rachel doesn't care. She says we can stay at Mitch's or Amanda's. I don't want to go to either place but keep walking to avoid another argument.

_Hey!_ she says, pointing past my shoulder. _Look!_

We stop, and I turn to see what the big fuss is all about. My eyes scan the water, looking for something notable. It doesn't seem like there's anything important, nothing worthy of stopping for, and I think about asking Rachel what is she talking about, until my breath catches in my throat. That's because I see it—I spot the crocodile, the one in the water ahead.

_Holy Jesus, really?_ I say, staring at the water. I watch the crocodile for any indication that he's real, that he's not a statue or decoy. He's so still that it's difficult to tell. All I can see are dark teardrops encased in gold orbs hovering above the water. I want to get closer.

_Hey,_ Rachel says, _you're close enough. He already knows about you._

_Oh, hush,_ I say. _The worst thing that can happen is that I'll be the dead one. That'd be funny, right?_ I say, laughing. The satisfaction I get from her sneer is almost worth it, but I don't really want to die. It's just nice to irk her, to put her in my place.

Ahead of me the water is glass, perfectly rigid. Perfectly level like a ballroom floor. It looks like I could stand on its surface and look down into the river from above, seeing crocodiles and fish and the reeds, the river grasses, the aqua mosses. But that thought quickly fades, replaced by a tingling worry. Something's going to happen, and I don't know what it is yet. I look at Rachel, and then I know. I know I should've left the water, should've exited it completely, and run.

Before I register what's happening, a big mess of noise engulfs me. The water splashes. A scream escapes from my mouth. Everything moves fast, faster than I can take in. I'm not sure which way is up or where the ground is, but then I feel something tight around my ankle, something determined to keep me still. It hurts.

I know I'm hanging upside down, suspended in the air, when the pressure mounts around my head. I hold my breath because it's easier if I don't breathe. It needs to be still, and if my lungs stop shaking my head, stop disrupting my vision with that constant pulsing, then I can see. I want to make sense of what's going on, but I get dizzy, so I breathe again. Eventually I see dusty pink—the sky—and make out the riverbank nearby. Then I see Rachel sitting on a boulder, clutching her chest. She's laughing like she just saw someone get hit in the groin with a football.

_What? What's so funny?_ I say, short of breath.

She shakes her head and points at my feet. I look toward them—not down, but up. My head pulls against tight springs; I'm working against gravity.

The hand around my ankle is big and pale. It's attached to a long arm, which is screwed into a ribcage with a pelvis from which long, thick legs sprout, anchored in the water.

_I'm so sorry,_ I say. _Didn't mean to intrude or anything,_ I say.

The face stares at me, the face of a man. A strange man. He cocks his head slowly, like a giant hawk.

_You mind putting me down? I promise I'll leave and won't bother you again,_ I say. I turn to Rachel. _What is it? What's so funny?_

She starts to answer me but stumbles. Whatever it is, it's still too funny. I push on, nagging her, asking her to spill it.

Rachel catches her breath after a long bout of laughter. It's annoying.

_You found him,_ she says, finally. _And he found you—you found each other!_

_Uh..._

_Because you're here,_ she says, gesturing to the shore, to the river, to the land around. I grumble, and she goes on after I tell her I don't get what she's talking about.

_He finds you when you come, don't you know? You have to come here, to this place. You have to be in the right place at the right time,_ she says. After a pause she chuckles to herself at her own private joke. _That's how it goes whenever you meet someone, even just a regular person, I guess,_ she says.

I think about asking her to elaborate but decide against it. I need to focus on getting down now, on getting right-side-up again.

_Excuse me, mister?_ I say, craning my neck to see better. I'm so tired and stiff, but I talk to the man. I go on, asking to be put down. _Being upside down is kind of uncomfortable, and I'm sorry for intruding._

_Marina?_ Rachel says.

_What?_ I say to her. Doing everything upside down is tiring.

_Don't be sorry,_ she says. _People come here for different reasons—he knows it happens._ _That's why he gives the gifts,_ she says, pointing at me _. Remember that he knows,_ she says.

_What?_ I shout. I pull my hand up in front of my face. It's glowing again, glowing like it glowed before in the darkness, that one time before, I think. This isn't new, the phosphore-something word: the one that means glowing.

_He'll give you three gifts, favors—whatever you want to call them—he'll give them to you,_ Rachel says. _Three, okay? That's how it always works. It's always three..._

_What's that?_ I say, looking away from my hand, looking instead at Rachel. _What in the hell are you talking about?_ My head is on the verge of exploding, and I'm losing my patience. I need to get down already. I've had enough of her shit, of Rachel's antics and weird men with creepy faces. Fuck that. Fuck all of it.

_Look, I'm going to say this one more time,_ I say, but when I see Rachel's face lose color, when I see her body thin out, I shout.

_Fucking Christ, Rachel, don't go! Don't do it again,_ I say, my voice screeching like rusty metal. It is useless now. Pathetic. Uncontrolled.

_Rachel—_

But I'm too late. She's gone. And I'm floating alone, no longer feeling the strain on my leg. My head no longer feels the weights hanging on it, weighing it down. My head feels completely fine.

It takes me a while to open my eyes, because I know where I am. I know my bedroom's white walls and the morning sunbeams that pierce the blinds. I know the absence of my sister's cranky smile, of her limp brown hair, of the ripples made by her laughter. In my head I try to recreate them, the real things about Rachel, the memories, but all I have are scraps. Pieces. Tidbits not worth mentioning. But they're all I have, and I don't know how to keep them from wearing thin, from breaking down into smaller pieces, from becoming a pile of dust at which I gawk, horrified. I thought I'd kept them safe. I thought I was doing enough.

# 6

I have the next few days off because Mary insisted I take time to decompress. She said I should get some rest and let things settle down. There wasn't any point in arguing, and she was right: I do need some time to myself.

The days that follow are a blur. Each day I watch TV for a while, taking breaks to have a smoke or eat something. I make a couple trips to the store for cigarettes when I run out. Claire comes home late each night and eats something quick before going to bed. I hang out on the couch and stay up, flipping through TV channels or watching videos online. At some point I get up and go to bed, struggling to get a full night's rest.

Sleeping continues to be difficult. Sleep doesn't come easily, and when it does, when I skip down the steps, going deeper, I trip and stumble. My body flinches, pulling me back into consciousness. I teeter between sleeping and waking, that place where you're still thinking but your body goes fuzzy and when you move your limbs, they resist.

Later, when I get up for water and wait for my glass to fill up under the faucet, I try to decide if I dreamed or if I just thought about a dream. Rachel was there—I thought about her, at least. Was this one where she was like herself or one where she was totally different, like a stranger? I think I was trying to talk her out of dying again, to convince her to live. Was that it? Well, that's how it goes most of the time: me trying to get her to come back.

And there was the gray man again. Something about it, about seeing him, felt familiar, but I don't know what or why. Has he been in my dreams before?

I look at my hand but find it normal. It's just my hand.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to ward off the headache I can feel coming on. I take an aspirin and finish my water before lying down again.

Dreams are confusing.

I dread going to work. Thoughts of the locker room, the antiseptic air, and the red-and-yellow lane-line ropes that divide the pool into long strips take over my mind. I think about it so much I don't want to be there, so much so I almost call in sick. Almost.

When my next shift approaches, I push myself out of the house, onto the streets, through all the construction to the pool parking lot. I take a moment to think it through one more time, but when I consider turning back, I hear my mother's voice telling me to suck it up. If I slinked away from every uncomfortable thing, I'd be the girl who runs away, who quits. And the only thing quitters do is grow weaker. _Do you want to be known for that? For being the girl who quits?_ my mom's voice says, echoing, so I unbuckle my seatbelt and march to the foggy glass door.

Inside the locker room I change as fast as I can because I don't want to run into Shell. Her car wasn't in the parking lot, but since I haven't seen the schedule yet, I don't know when she's due next. For all I know, that could be today. When I go into the office to clock in, I see Mary at her desk, looking through papers. She glances up at me.

"Hi," I say, my voice faded. I grab my time card from the holder.

"Hey, there," she says. More papers ruffle.

I push my card into the punching slot. It vibrates slightly when the stamp activates. I wonder how hard it clamps against the paper, if it's strong enough to break skin if my finger were to fit in the slot. For a moment I consider trying it. Sometime. Then I put the card back into the holder and make my way to the door.

"Hey, Marina," Mary says, "come back here for a second."

I turn around. The edges of the room are fuzzy. "Yeah? What's up?" I shuffle closer to her desk.

Mary finishes writing something, the tip of her pen filling the silence, finishing a sentence. She looks up. Her irises have a glow I've never noticed until now. "Let's talk about the other day. You want to sit down?" She motions to the stool by the wall. I sit, feeling the cold plastic flex. I wait for her to speak, but it feels like my turn.

"How's Mike doing?" I say.

"All right. They had him in the hospital for observation, but they still may have to do surgery."

I nod and look at the floor. There's a buildup of grime next to Mary's desk. It would probably come off with Windex.

"You did a good job, Marina. He's alive, and that means a lot. But it's my job to make sure my staff is doing their jobs, and I have to ask you about it."

"Okay."

Mary leans back, her blue office chair squealing as it tilts, and sighs. "What made you decide to render assistance?"

"He was showing signs of drowning," I say. I shift my weight on my seat. "I watched. Then I decided to call it and went in."

"What signs were there?"

I've replayed the scene so many times that I shouldn't feel ignorant, but I think about each detail, picking through the images, noting the important parts. "He was doing laps, but after a while he stopped. His head was upright. Then he went limp."

"How long was he doing that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Before he went limp."

"I don't know," I say. "A few seconds?"

"A few seconds?" Her head rocks to the side, and her brow wrinkles. "Are you sure?"

"I didn't know if he was doing it on purpose. He's like that, you know?" I hang forward and shrug slightly in emphasis. "I thought he was trying to make a point or something."

Mary tightens her hair, splitting her bun in half and pulling it apart. When she's done fidgeting, she looks up at me again. I can see the blood vessels in her temples.

"Yes, I understand. You wouldn't have wanted to make yourself look stupid in case he wasn't in trouble, but the fact of the matter is, he was exhibiting the symptoms and you weren't paying attention—or you hesitated too long. This isn't a job where you can do that, Marina."

"I'm aware of that."

"Got to be on your toes, all right? Even though the man is an overstressed lunatic, it'd be bad to not notice that the university's swim coach was drowning."

I nod, knowing she's right. This is going how I expected. She makes my worries real, giving them shape. I wait for the blow to come next. My body tenses, my heart rate doubles, and my throat dries up, cracking. But she tells me to get out there, to start my shift, and I do.

Walking through the office door, I feel relieved to not have been fired, but I'm slow. Sluggish. My legs move themselves, carrying me around the pool's perimeter without feeling the ground underneath. When I reach the lifeguard chair I rest the life preserver on the ground, leaning it against chair leg, but then pick it back up. I sit down and hold the white foam pad on my lap. I should be ready at any time.

The air is heavy. I scan the arms and bug-eyed faces popping up from the water. The new coach is standing behind the blocks talking with a swimmer. He's younger than Mike. Have I seen him before? I think so, maybe. I think his name is Kevin.

I spot Justin in the farthest lane, but as soon as I see him, I feel guilty. I feel stupid and naive. I don't know why I even have a chance with him. But I should be doing my job instead of thinking about this because last time I zoned out at work someone almost died.

Looking around the pool, I expect it to happen again. If it happens, then I can stop worrying about it. But that's stupid. Why do I want that? I grab my rational self by the shoulders and shake her to wake up, to focus. To get it together.

Too bad that doesn't happen, though. I can't ignore the ambulance siren I hear outside, the sound growing louder each second. I think it's coming here, but when the echo fades, I realize it was only passing by, going somewhere else. It's on its way to help someone who's hurt enough to need an ambulance, and who's that? What's their emergency? Maybe that person is hurt from a fall or from a rear-end accident. Maybe it was an old woman who slipped on a sidewalk at the mall. Or maybe the siren is for someone who's dying. After all, people die all the time. Everywhere.

While I stare out the large window at the cars, I feel the walls rush in, shrink-wrapping my skin. I can't move. I can't breathe. I'm trapped, suffocating. What will happen if I stay put, I don't know—I don't know anything.

In my last voluntary act, I jump to my feet. I run.

The realization of what I've done grows thick and lush, sprouting thorns, by the time I get home. I collapse face-first on the couch and cry. What am I going to do now? How much money do I have, and how long will it last? Stupid. So stupid.

After I've cried myself dry, I get up and undo my hair. It's tangled, needing to be brushed, so I feel through it. My phone starts ringing, but I ignore it and continue untangling my hair. It wraps around my fingers, and when I'm done, I look at the ball my shedding has produced before I get up to throw it away in the kitchen. Then I open the fridge door. I don't find anything that I want, so I go outside for a smoke. When my pack is empty, I start to leave to get another one before realizing I'm still wearing my swimsuit.

I'd better change out of it, I figure: I'm not a lifeguard anymore.

When my mom's birthday comes, I'm relieved. Each year in October we go to the coast. My stepdad Oscar usually gets the beach house from his friend Gene, and even though it's technically a place we rent, it feels like a second home. It's a place I crave sometimes. And now, thinking about being back at the water's edge with the wind in my hair, breathing in the gusts that blow off the saltwater, I'm counting the days until the weekend—we go the second or third weekend of October, depending on what works best. Some years, depending on everyone's schedule, we don't go until it's almost Halloween, but sometimes I like that better.

I text my mom, asking her what the plan is. It doesn't matter now when we go—my work schedule isn't going to be a problem. When she replies, she says to come over for dinner on Tuesday, her actual birthday. I take on baking a cake, and good thing I already had a boxed mix with frosting. I'm counting my dollars because I don't know when I'll see another paycheck.

As soon as I rap my knuckles against my mom's front door, I hear howling and footsteps. The door opens, and from behind it my stepdad's round face appears.

"Hi, Oscar," I say.

He smiles. "Hello, Monkey Girl." He's called me that since the beginning, when I spent afternoons in the backyard climbing trees, sometimes climbing onto the roof, where I used to creep along the edges. The whole business drove my mom crazy, but Oscar never shouted, never got angry. He ignored me until it got dark, which is when he'd come out and say to me, "All right, Monkey Girl, time to come down—you can climb again tomorrow." So I came down, and the next day, went back up.

I step inside into the foyer, and Oscar takes the cake from my arms before walking down the hallway. I kick off my boots and turn to the dog.

"Hi there, Cece." I bend down and hold out my hand.

She looks at me, unsure. Her body stiffens, and her head lowers. She steps closer, but when I try to pet her, she barks and scurries away.

"Geez, girl, you _know_ me."

Cece scowls. Sometimes her mismatched eyes are creepy. Especially the blue one.

My mom's voice carries down the hallway from the kitchen. "Mare, is that you?"

"Yep," I say, shouting. "Cece isn't sure, though." I enter the kitchen and find Mom hovering over the range. Her light-brown hair is shorter than the last time I saw her, and she's wearing it curly, which makes it even shorter, barely touching her shoulders. She hasn't worn it that way for a long time. Maybe since I was in middle school.

I come over and rest my chin on her shoulder.

"Happy birthday, Mom. Whatcha making? It smells good."

"There's lasagna in the oven, and I'm steaming some green beans. Then we've got some garlic bread that Oscar picked up."

"I haven't had lasagna in so long."

"You better be hungry. Got to fatten you up a bit," she says, poking at my stomach with the tongs.

Stepping away from her, I clasp my stomach and force a laugh. I ask her if I can do anything to help.

"Dinner won't be for another forty minutes," she says. "But you know what you can do? There are some boxes in your old room." She looks down at the clump of green beans and prods it with tongs. "It's old stuff," she says, her voice hesitant. I know she means _Rachel's_ old stuff.

"Sure," I say, "just give me a shout when dinner's ready." I leave her and go to the room which Rachel and I shared growing up.

When I flip the light switch, I don't recognize my old bedroom. There are stacks of mismatched cardboard boxes blocking everything. Our beds—mine the loft bed in the corner and hers the twin underneath—used to be the monstrosity in this room, being the fixed object around which everything else moved. It's different now. The twin bed is buried, boxes and piles of clothes are stacked next to it, and several things are stuffed on top of the loft.

I make my way to the ladder, clearing things as needed to pass, and climb. I see Rachel's guitar case and pull it down, laying it on a bed of clutter. The clasps snap loudly as I undo them, and I take a breath before pushing the lid open.

The air from the case rises. The musky sweetness reminds me of so many things. Stale cigarettes. Rachel sitting on the couch with her legs curled under her, painting her nails orange while talking on the phone. Lemon-lime soda—her favorite. She said it was the best because it was good for drinking plain or in mixed drinks. It was good in hot or cold weather. Lemon-lime was the ultimate all-purpose flavor.

I lift the instrument from the case, and, like a friend, I hug it. Inside the guitar case there's a pack of smokes, which is, not surprisingly, empty. She probably dropped it while practicing and later forgot—or maybe she didn't care—when she packed the guitar away for next time. Of course there was no next time. It was the last time, and here I am. This is as close to her as I'll get; our lives are tied together by this ratty guitar and its ratty case.

I set the guitar down and go through the case. Inside a compartment I find a piece of paper pressed in half, its edges misaligned. I unfold the paper, and even though I expect to see Rachel's handwriting, I still feel surprised by the blue ink, by the straight and crisp letters, by the awkwardly wide _O_ s that are fatter than they are tall. It's definitely Rachel's handwriting. After I read the whole thing, I realize what the notes are: they're lyrics.

She was writing songs, and I didn't know.

I read it again and then a third time, feeling the words bringing me closer and yet pushing me farther away, as if I've gained entry to an exclusive club only to find I don't belong inside. The paper is rough, wrinkled, and creased. It is not comforting. I stare at the phrases that allude to being molested and abused—something I didn't learn about until it was too late.

When word got out about Rachel's death, people started showing up as if they were responding to a homing beacon, answering the call to come to my mom's house and fill it with chatter, tears, flowers, validation, and thoughtful silence. My aunt and uncle, my cousins, Oscar's family, their friends, neighbors, Claire and her sister, and my mom's coworkers at the salon all showed up, and they all came bearing something. Our visitors dropped off food, helped with errands, and drove us around. We talked about Rachel. We asked questions. Sometimes we tried to give each other answers, but they were never any good.

And one day Mitch stopped by. I hadn't thought of him as her boyfriend—they had such a confusing relationship that I never knew what to call him. "I want to talk to you," he said. I looked him in the eyes and realized my hatred for him had melted, so I said okay, and we came to this room, my old room, where it was quiet and secluded. I found the lilac walls comforting because they were pretty and familiar. I always liked purple.

I hadn't eaten or slept for two days, feeling feverish, feeling that everything mattered so much that it voided itself, turning into a nonmatter. I was so battered that nothing could make me feel worse. Mitch fumbled with his hands. I sat on the floor, my head resting against the wall as I stared at the color that reminded me of spring, listening.

Mitch shared and shared. There were his good memories. The sadness. Questions and doubts. He did feel guilty for leading her on, he admitted that to me. Too bad Rachel would never know that, even after I told her time and time again that's what he was doing. He sucked her in and exhaled her, pushing her out, sending her away. But he needed her. He needed someone to breathe, because, despite the good side of their relationship, he didn't know how to stop using her.

We sat there, him talking and me listening. Then Mitch segued, saying Rachel had other issues.

"Other issues?" I said. "What do you mean?"

"Well," he said, trailing off. It was obvious he knew what he wanted to say. I waited, letting his words dribble out. And they did.

Turned out, Rachel was molested, and the guy who abused her was my dad's friend Freddy, the bass player who came by when we stayed with Dad in the summer. "She never told anyone except for me," Mitch said. He stuttered and wrung his hands. "Thought you'd want to know," he said.

I learned then it was possible to feel more confused, more betrayed, and even more abandoned. Just so happened that my dad came the next day, flying in from LAX. Talking to him was impossible and being in the same room intolerable. At one point I came close to screaming, to articulating my rage with my arms slicing the air. I could've glared hard enough to hurt him. How could he not know? Why didn't he protect her? Why did he choose his friends over Rachel, over us? His dreams were more important to him, I knew deep down. That's why he left, moved to California and remarried. That's why he waved Freddy inside the house without thinking. He let this pedophile mingle with his kids so he could feel important. Cool. Like a real musician.

Each time I touch my own guitar now, memories of my dad's house turn into a search for the corners where this secret was hiding. Whenever Rachel was out of sight, it meant she was suffering behind a locked door, enduring violations from a man more than twice her age.

I put the guitar away when I hear my mom's voice calling me, telling me to come back. It's time to eat.

While we have dinner, Oscar relives the baseball game that just ended. When he talks about baseball, he gets excited, becomes lighthearted. His eyes light up. His voice changes pitch. His gestures get bigger. I listen, thinking about the sunny afternoons I spent on an aluminum bench, ignoring the layer of dust building on my skin, watching Max's baseball games. Being so far away in the outfield, he was never the one doing anything cool.

"It was such a good play," Oscar says. He finishes chewing and wipes his mouth before going on. "At the bottom of the ninth, Sanchez—"

"Yes, honey," Mom says, interrupting. "We know Sanchez hit a home run. I saw the score: it was four to three."

I finish chewing and swallow my bite of green beans and then turn to Oscar. "Who do you want to see go to the World Series?"

"Of course I want to see the Mariners, but they won't have a chance." He reclines in his chair and smiles. "I wouldn't mind seeing the Cardinals play the Giants. It looks like it's shaping up to be those two against each other."

"Oh, that's—"

"But as long as I don't have to see the Yankees play in another World Series, it's fine by me. I get so tired of the Yankees."

During a lull in the conversation, I fill my mouth with another bite of lasagna. The sound of everyone chewing reminds me of cattle grazing. We shuffle along, clipping mouthfuls of grass off the ground to grind between our teeth.

I'm interrupted when my mom asks about work.

"It's...okay," I say. I reach for my wine glass and raise it to my lips. I'm slow about it.

"What do you mean, sweetie?" In the corner of my eye I can see my mom turning to face me directly. "Why am I getting the feeling it's not going well?"

"Because it's not," I say. "It was kind of mutual..."

"Marina?" my mom says. I hate it when she uses that tone. When she talks like that, I know she's decided there's a problem, something to find out and solve.

I tell her what happened. I'm brief. My mom listens while cutting her food into small bites that she doesn't eat. The fork and knife grind against the plate.

"Are you mad?" I say to her.

I watch her saw a cube of lasagna in half, the layers still whole at the end. When she reaches for her wine glass, I glance at Oscar, whose mouth is full, chewing. Within the seconds that pass, empty of words, a threat looms, growing into a faceless swordsman ready to decapitate someone. Me, probably. I grab my wine glass and bring it to my lips.

"You know, Marina," my mom says, "maybe this is a good thing."

I almost choke on my drink, surprised. "How?" I say.

"It'll give you a fresh start. Sometimes that's a good thing." She turns, looking at me, and the chair squeaks as she leans against the back. "As a matter of fact, I know just the thing. You should apply at the store Angela's family runs." Mom pauses and shakes her head slightly, thinking. "I mean, it's her family friend's store. Anyway, I talked to Max today, and he mentioned the owners are looking for help for the holidays."

I've never worked in a store before. All I know how to do is lifeguard. "What kind of place is it?"

"Some gift shop. They own it." My mom continues talking about it until I agree to try it. She writes the information down on a green sticky note and gives it to me. Though I know already what it says, I read it anyway. I fold the sticky edge down, sticking the note to itself, before shoving it into my purse.

We finish eating dinner and stand up. I help my mom clear the plates off the table, and Oscar opens the dishwasher.

"So, when are we going to the beach?" I say. "I don't know about you, but I need a bowl of clam chowder really bad."

Mom moves past me to grab the lasagna dish.

"Is it going to be this weekend or next?"

"We're not going to the beach this year," she says. "It's not going to work, not this time."

"What?" I glance at Oscar, who's left the kitchen and drifted toward the TV. He's paralyzed, standing there with the remote in his hands, eyes stuck on the screen. I ask my mom why we aren't going, and she says, "Just because." That's not a good enough answer, I tell her, and she says there are lots of reasons. She says the availability was limited. She couldn't get the time off, either. And Max isn't coming because he's got plans with Angela and her parents or something. When I prod further, she cuts me off: it's not something up for any more discussion, apparently, and I feel my stomach harden. The air in the room becomes solid, rigid. It's heavy and I'm not strong enough to move it around.

My life has changed again; a shift has taken place, and it's too late to do anything about it.

"I've got to run out to my car," I say. "I'll be right back." I stand up and sling my purse over my shoulder when I feel her eyes on me. "I forgot the candles," I say while stepping toward the door.

Outside, the air smells like barbecue. Somewhere nearby there's meat grilling over a flame or charcoal briquettes, making it seem like summer though it's technically autumn now. I walk down the driveway and onto the sidewalk. A few yards is far enough away, out of sight of the house. I light a cigarette and smoke it, letting the nicotine do its work in calming my nerves. All I need to do is eat some cake, and then I can leave. That's it. I put out my cigarette and toss the butt in the ash tray of my car. Before going back inside, I spritz myself with the coconut body spray I keep in my purse.

Inside, Oscar and Mom are doing the dishes. When they notice me, Oscar looks up.

"Time for cake then, right?" he says. "I've been saving room for that."

I nod and unload my purse from my shoulder.

Mom says something.

"Hmm?" I say. "What was that?"

"I said, 'Did you find the candles?'" she says. Her voice sounds like that of a stranger.

"Uh..."

She lifts something off the table, a small yellow thing. "Are these it?" The candles rattle inside the packaging, like a box of candy.

"Yeah, that's it." I hold out my hand. "Here, I'll do it."

She gives me the box and turns around to lift a stack of plates into the cupboard. I start jabbing the cake with candles, making a spiral. I want to move one of them, but then there'd be a hole in the frosting, a visible afterthought.

Oscar turns off the faucet, closes the dishwasher, and walks out of the kitchen. I hear the bathroom door open and close. My mom stands next to me drying the wine glasses.

"Okay," I say. "Done." I stare at the cake, not looking at her, not wanting to meet her eyes. I just want to eat some stupid cake and leave.

"You think I don't know about your smoking?" she says. "Is that why you try to hide it from me?"

My breathing stumbles. I look back down at the cake, feeling something ripped from me, off my body, exposing it to cold, unfriendly air.

"You think I'm stupid," she says. Inside her voice I see the viciousness, the desire for a fight. She caught me off guard, and I'm not ready.

"No," I say. "I don't want to advertise it, that's all."

"I can smell it on your clothes. It's in your face—I can see it."

"Do you have to do this now?"

"When did it start?" she says. She grabs the sponge from the sink and starts wiping down the countertops.

"What?"

She asks again about the smoking. When it started, who it was that enabled me. Why I thought it was a good idea.

"It's a little late for this conversation," I say. I grab my temples and take a deep breath. "Can't we just not talk about it? At least I made the effort to be here for your birthday, and I baked you a fucking cake."

Her head jerks as if something in her neck snapped, broke under severe tension. "You watch your mouth, young lady. And besides, you shouldn't talk that way. Max couldn't come."

"Oh yeah," I say, rolling my eyes. "Max couldn't make it. He was _busy._ You know if I told you that I was busy, you'd stop talking to me for a month. You let him get away with everything. Is that why we didn't go to the beach for your birthday this year? Because Max was busy?"

"We went over it already. It wasn't going to work, and besides," she says, stopping her cleanup, "weren't you just at the beach?"

"That's completely unrelated to this," I say, shaking my head. I look her straight in the eye, letting loose words that have been boiling behind my lips, growing hotter. I can't keep them contained. "You didn't want to go to the beach because Rachel wasn't going to be there. That's why, isn't it?"

Her eyes flicker from side to side. She opens her mouth to reply, but stops, saying nothing. We stand in silence, and we both know I'm right.

"What is it?" I cross my arms. "Oh, and I was seventeen."

"What?"

"When I started smoking," I say. "Well?"

She stares at me straight in the eye. "What do you want me to say?"

I see how aged she is, how the skin around her eyes sags into tiny waves. The flesh of her upper arm hangs off her bones, swaying when she moves, when she breathes. Her eyes are watery, and in the corners, yellowish.

I look away.

"I don't know," I say. The microwave clock says it's after eight o'clock.

"You don't know? Are you sure? Isn't there something you want _me_ to say, Marina?"

"No."

"I think you want me to say 'Yes, Max didn't want to come because he'd rather spend time with his girlfriend,' and 'Yes, I didn't want to go to the coast because Rachel would be missing.'" She leans forward, closer to me. I can smell her hair, the shampoo that smells like perfume. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"I just—"

"You just _what_?" she says, her voice like pins in my ears. "You just want me to admit that I'm a terrible mother? Is that it? Because I messed up somewhere, you can be sure of that."

Down the hall, the toilet flushes and the doorknob clicks. Mom picks up where she left off, cleaning the counters, and I move the cake onto the table. Oscar walks into the kitchen.

"Do we have any ice cream?" he says to both of us. "It would be good with cake. I love ice cream and cake." He pats his stomach.

I shrug. "I just brought cake."

"You know," my mom says, "I have a headache. I should go lay down." She says all this to Oscar, pretending I'm not there.

"And no cake?" he says then looks at me. He motions to the table. "You can't not have cake on your birthday. Come on, hon. Let's cut it up."

Apparently, Oscar is oblivious to the fight we just had. Or he chooses to be oblivious. Either way, Mom cooperates. I get plates and cross the kitchen to kill the lights. After I hit the switch and turn back for the table, I regard my mom sitting at the table in the darkness, her face waxy and underlit by the tiny flames below.

For the rest of the night, I don't know what to say to my mom. Oscar talks about baseball, but I have a hard time focusing on what he says, so I nod and give courtesy laughs. When we're done with cake, I pack my things and say thanks for dinner, it was delicious. I don't hug my mom good-bye but instead hang off the wall, poised to leave, and tell her happy birthday—it takes everything I have to push the words out.

# 7

It sucks not having a job, but it sucks more having to look for one. For the better part of a week, I pick through job postings, through ads and bulletins. I skip descriptions, knowing immediately I'm not qualified because of the job title. Anything with the words _analyst_ or _technician_ are off-limits. Maybe there's a chance in customer service, direct sales, or receptionist jobs, and I look at the bank teller positions. Then I read further, learning what's wanted or who can apply, and most of the time, I don't fit the requirements. I don't have any previous experience. I don't know how fast I type. I've never handled money. Could I pass a background check? Probably. A drug test? Probably not. The postings that list bilingual English/Spanish as "desired" catch my attention long enough to sting. If only I had that. If only I'd learned. Through my dad or my grandmother there was a chance to get that, to know another language, but that ship sailed long ago.

At the end of the week, I leave the house and gather applications from fast food restaurants to bring home. But when I sit down with them, I stop and think. My mom's words echo in my head, replaying what she said before about the store, the one owned by Angela's family friend. I haven't wanted to consider it worthwhile. After all, why would Mom mention such a random piece of news? Maybe it was just coincidence, but I can't help guess she and Max were talking about me, about my dead-end job or my present status of advancing toward nowhere. That's possible.

Rent is coming up. My car insurance bill is among the envelopes stacked on the kitchen table. Sometime I'll have to buy food too—I can't live off Claire for too much longer. Of all the people in my life, she's the one I don't want to wear out.

The other choices are to apply for fast food jobs, hoping I get one, or call my dad for money. I promised myself to never do that—I'd have to be dead first.

I review the options and compare the levels of terribleness. Out of all three, the least worst is the store. I might not get an interview, but at least I can call them. It's worth trying. When I dial the number and talk to someone—a man named Ron—I'm surprised how pleasant the conversation is. I'm even more surprised he wants me to come into the store, to meet in person. When the day of the interview comes, I do my hair and iron my outfit. I want to make a good impression.

The gift store is nestled between two other shops, one selling pet supplies and the other books. When at last I see the sign for _Remy's Gifts,_ my chest tightens and I start sweating. The brass handle is large but gives easily, and I push open the oversized wooden door. I hope I don't royally mess this up.

Inside, the store smells like a college dorm room. Incense? It's strong enough that I look around, searching for a smoking cone or stick. The place is so packed with all sorts of things—toys, perfume, books, greeting cards, calendars, magnets, jewelry, T-shirts, and trinkets—that I couldn't locate the incense burner unless I had more time.

A woman with thick, red dreadlocks bursts out from behind the cash register, her upper body wobbling. I flinch.

"Sorry," she says, raising her palms to me. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"It's okay," I say. My body deflates from the adrenaline surge, and I pull my hair behind my ear. "I'm here to see Ron, I think."

The woman stops fumbling with a plastic bag and looks at me. "An interview, right?"

I nod. She turns, showing an enormous knot of red hair twisted behind her head, and shouts over her shoulder, "Ron? Hey, Ronny, she's here." The woman looks at me again. "He'll be out in a second, okay?"

"Thanks." Trying to look occupied but not busy, I hang out by a freestanding shelf with scented candles. I pick up a lavender one and bring it to my nose, smelling it. Then I feel a vibration in the floor: footsteps. I put the candle back and meet the eyes of the tall, stringy man who has entered through a back door.

"Hello," he says. "Are you Marina?"

"Yes." I tell him he must be Ron, and he says yep, it's him. He asks if I want to see some ID.

"Huh?"

He laughs, slaps his thigh. "Just kidding, just kidding."

"Ron," the woman says. "You can't torment this poor girl. Don't you know your jokes are terrible? She just walked in the door." The woman turns to me. "Don't mind him. He's a little..." She points to her head, her hand a spoke on a turning wheel.

"She's calling me crazy, right?" he says to me. "She thinks I've lost it."

I raise my hand. "I plead the fifth."

When they laugh the air loosens, freeing some space. I can breathe better. I think this is a good thing. I think I have a chance.

Ron leads me into his office, and we sit down. He starts by telling me he's owned this store with his wife—that was her out front, Melinda—for ten years. It's their pride. Their baby. They spend all their time here, which is fine, but they usually have an employee or two because, he says, they like to be able to eat dinner together. At least sometimes. And the last person left a month ago, which puts them in a tight spot with the holiday season coming up. November through December is the busiest time of year—they make between 30 to 45 percent of their annual sales during that time alone.

"So," he says. "You ever worked in a store before?"

"I've worked as a lifeguard for a few years," I say. "But a store, no."

"Well, your job is pretty straightforward. You've got to man the cash register—which I hate doing, and Melinda will do when we're out extra help, but she's got other things to do—and tidy things up. And you have to be nice to customers. Always greet them when they come in, always say 'Have a good day' when they leave, and so on. But don't be too pushy." He crosses his legs and then switches sides. Somehow, the conversation drifts away from the store to bowling. Ron used to be on a team but hasn't done it for years. Maybe he can get back into it after this next Christmas, he says. He brings up Angela's family briefly before segueing to something else. I listen while he talks, smiling and mimicking his expressions as I gauge how to react.

Nearly an hour later, he tells me I'm a nice kid. He'll hire me, and I say okay. We talk some more about hours and pay. It's more than I made at the pool, which is a plus. We shake on it, and he tells me to come in tomorrow morning at nine o'clock.

Leaving the store, I feel flexible, bouncy. It's hard to contain my excitement while walking down the street to my car. My cheeks are tired because I'm smiling so hard. I have ballerina feet that at a moment's notice can spring into an arch, standing on tiptoe, pirouetting with grace, with ease. I wait until I get in my car to have a smoke, and in the afternoon sun I feel a heaviness lift, floating away. I feel good.

When I come home from Remy's, I start doing laundry. Then I decide to clean. The success of my day so far has given me a sense of momentum; it would be wrong to stop now.

I start organizing shoes by the door and then move on to picking up misplaced things from the living room to the kitchen before wiping down appliances and surfaces with Pledge and Windex. When I dig the vacuum out of the closet, I try to remember the last time I used the thing. It takes me a minute to get it set up. I vacuum the entire downstairs before making my way upstairs, where the bedrooms—and most of the dust—are.

When I get to my room, I realize I need to clear the floor of clothes, which are in generally separate lumps but have a way of merging. I start going through them but get tired from bending over, so I transfer everything onto the bed. After I distinguish clean from dirty, I put the clean clothes in their proper place, promising myself to use drawers and hangers in the future. I have a job that requires clothes now: I better keep up on laundry.

Since I'm at it, I decide to wash my comforter and sheets too. I tug each corner out and wad everything together. I take the pillowcases off and add them to the mix, but when I feel something cold and rigid, I stop.

It takes a second to process the fact that the thing under the pillow is the pendant, the locket. It's my beach artifact, here. Under my pillow.

I step away until I'm leaning against the wall. I don't want to leave it unattended—it might ambush me again. But I don't want to be near the thing, and it's in my fucking bed.

I cup my ears. I grit my teeth and think. That night, I asked Claire to throw it away. I watched her do it. She crouched and hovered over it like she was tending to a spilled drink. She ruffled the ziplock baggie and used it like a glove to pick up the pendant. Her fingers pinched the end, sliding along the edge to seal the locket inside. I also heard it go into the trash, crinkling the trash liner on its way.

Maybe, when I wasn't looking or asleep or out of the house working, Claire dug it out, thinking I'd change my mind. It's like her to make an assumption like that, to be sneaky. But Claire wouldn't put it here, in my bed of all places. She might've put it in a drawer or a box or even in with my jewelry, but not here.

I go downstairs, my knees flexing like rubber as I descend. In the kitchen I find a jar with a lid and tear paper towels off the rack. I sprint up the stairs, taking two at a time, and am relieved to find the pendant hasn't moved. With the paper towels as a buffer, I grab it and drop it into the jar. The metal clinks against the glass. I screw the top on and wrench it shut.

Downstairs, I try to find a place to put it, somewhere that feels appropriate. That feels safe—or safe enough. For some reason that place is underneath the kitchen sink, behind the bleach and the drain cleaner.

I wash my hands once, then a second time, before returning to my room to continue cleaning. I gather my bedding in my arms, grabbing as much as I can, and head downstairs. I miss a step, though, and slip, falling on my butt. I shout to Jesus fucking Christ and rub my tailbone. It tingles, and I wait before trying to get up. Waddling through the living room, I locate my purse but don't bother with a jacket. I don't care how cold it is outside—I need a cigarette.

When I'm on my third or fourth smoke, Claire's car appears from around the corner. She parks on the curb and steps out of the car, heading for the trunk.

"Hey there," I say from the stoop. "What's up?"

The trunk door clicks shut, and she walks toward me, carrying a duffel bag. "Just so done with working in the lab store already. I hate it."

"Sorry," I say.

She frowns at me. "Aren't you cold? It's, like, forty degrees out here."

I hug my knees tighter and exhale. "I'm okay," I say. "Haven't been outside long."

Claire's face changes back to normal. She climbs the step, passing me, and opens the door. "You coming in?"

"Yeah, hold up." I take one more drag and mash the butt on the porcupine's head. I get up. Inside the house feels like a warm winter cabin, its own little universe tucked away in a giant wilderness.

Claire sets down her bag and looks around. "You cleaned?"

"I started to."

"Thank you. This feels much better already." She sits on the couch and takes off her shoes. "What's all that doing there?" she says, pointing past my shoulder. I turn and see the avalanche of clothes and sheets.

"Oh, yeah." I start picking my laundry up, but when I bend over, I wince and clutch my back. "I was taking my stuff down and slipped." I rub near my tailbone. "Fell on my butt pretty hard."

"Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine," I say. I'll just have to make two trips to get everything to the washing machine.

"You should take it easy," she says. "Sure you're okay?"

"I'm going to throw a load in, and then I'll lie down."

"Let me know if you want help." Claire gets up to go to the kitchen. She looks in the fridge, riffles through cupboards. "You eaten yet?" she says.

"No."

"Want to go out? I'm craving Thai and don't feel like cooking."

When I get to the kitchen, I tell her I agree. One, because I don't want to cook either, and two, because I have money again.

"You got a job?" she says. She tugs on my arm, excited. I tell her about the store, about Ron and Melinda and how I think it'll be good. "We better go out, then, to celebrate. Come on."

Over the course of the evening, I dance around the conversation I want to have with Claire. I want to ask her why she took the locket out of the trash when I'd asked her to throw it away. I want to know why she didn't tell me beforehand. Why she'd be so weird about it. The arrival of our plates steaming in the dim light creates a break, a disruption that makes room for me talk about it. There's a moment when she hunches over her plate of pad thai noodles, blowing on the bundle wrapped around her fork to cool it off, that I think about it. Instead of bringing it up, though, I sit there, watching the space fill again, doing nothing as the moment passes, and now I'm eating. Another chance doesn't come, so I don't say anything about it.

After we get home, I go to the washer and move my sheets into the dryer. While I wait for the load to get done, I turn on the TV and lie on the couch. When I want to warm up, I pull the throw blanket over me. I almost get up for a cigarette, but decide to wait for the next commercial. Then the next. And then my face wilts, yielding to the pull of a force deep down.

When my tug-of-war with sleep ends, I sit up quickly. The world has grown, though, somehow, and is different. I walk around the kitchen. It's spotless, immaculate. Clean like a paper towel commercial—maybe I'm in one, right this second. I giggle and look around.

_Hello? Is anyone home?_ I say. _Hello?_ There is no answer, no sign of others. To get a response, I stomp, pounding the ground with my heels. If someone is home, they'll hear that. Still, though, no one answers my calls.

Oh, screw it—I'll look around.

I jump high and fine-tune my buoyancy so I float at ceiling-level. Looking down at things is easier—it'll allow me to be in a better position to investigate and not be ambushed. I paddle, stretching my arms ahead and breaking them apart. The living room is clear. Only an empty couch and a coffee table. The TV is on, but I don't know what the show is. It's not clear enough to make out.

The hallway I pass through is empty. The bathroom, which is as darkly bright as an overcast sky, is empty. I enter a bedroom next. The bedspread is crisp and flat, all corners and straight lines as if arranged by a professional housekeeper, but there are no people.

I paddle, and when I need to reverse direction, I tuck my chin to my chest and curl up, pulling my legs over my head. My feet find the wall, and I push it away, returning to the hallway. At the end there is a closed door. Another bedroom, probably. I wait with my ear pressed to the wall, but I don't hear much. I dive to the floor and look underneath the door, through the crack.

Feet, I see feet. Whose they are isn't clear.

There is laughter, the kind that is genuine and carefree. Although that means it's safe—that the person on the other side isn't an enemy—I float back to the ceiling instead of knocking. It's safer up top. I feel less exposed up there.

I don't want to lose them, though—whoever it is beyond the door, I don't want to scare them away. I don't want to mess it up. Before I can decide what to do, the door opens. A woman comes out, rushing to get somewhere. Seeing her makes my throat clench shut: aspects of her hair, her face, her slouched, long-strided walk, are recognizable.

_Rachel,_ I say, whispering in full knowledge that I've blown my cover.

She stops and stands completely still. She cranes her neck over her shoulder, looking up. Her eyes meet mine. Her hair is different, but I'm not sure how.

_Rachel, please don't run. Just wait, let me explain._ It's like the time I asked her to not slit her wrists and bleed to death. She looked at me, her face blank, like I was the one being unreasonable. Like I was an alien. I could feel her evaluating what I'd said. Was it the narrowing of her eyes? The pupils shrinking? Was it her lips contracting, pulling closer together in disgust? It was subtle, whatever the clue was, but it was enough: I knew she wasn't going to listen.

_Wait!_ I say, but it's too late. She's running away. Again. With each step her hair swings from side to side, brushstrokes amplifying the distance between us.

_Dammit, Rachel!_ I say under my breath. She has always been fast, faster than me.

I chase her, trying to catch up. We weave through the hallway, down a staircase, and through a large room with a glass door. She opens it and darts away, fleeing into the yard beyond. As I reach the door, her feet make contact with the ground and her legs coil, becoming strong as steel. In an instant she is in the air, headed for the clouds.

Seconds later I touch off from the same spot of thick green grass that's perhaps wishing us farewell, wishing me luck, by waving in the wind.

Just beyond the maple tree I see her, an arrow on course to its destination. In an effort to keep up my speed, I harden my stomach and pull my limbs closer together. I coach myself: Limit air resistance. Stay taut. Be focused. When I slow down, I kick: One, two, three, kick. One, two, three, kick. I glance up and see her, but she's still far ahead.

Think, I tell myself. Think. Think. Think.

Rachel's fast, but doesn't pace well. She'll get tired soon—that always was her problem. She'll run out of juice and slow down, which means I need to stay the course, to keep kicking. Time is on my side, after all. So I follow her.

She tries to shake me by turning suddenly, by plunging into a cloud and doubling back. One maneuver almost backfires—I come within inches of catching her, my fingers feeling the heat of her skin as she slides past my reach. When we spiral down, down to the ground, I know she hopes I'll chicken out, but I don't. Eventually she slows down, tires out. I follow her downtown to a skyscraper, the one that looks like a glass millipede eating clouds. She lands on a rooftop patio. When I touch down, I'm surprised at the clear tiles under my feet. I try not to stare at them as I follow Rachel to a pair of patio chairs where she's sat down.

Her crossed ankles resting on a second chair disband, swinging to the ground.

_Sit down, will you?_ she says to me, pointing to the extra chair. I cooperate, feeling the need to indulge her as well as rest.

_Why did you choose this place?_ I say. _It's not great._

She scoffs, and then she says, _That's because you don't know how good the mai tais are. I ordered one for you._

_I don't like rum,_ I say.

_You'll like this,_ she says. She looks away, focusing her gaze somewhere beyond the balcony's edge. For a moment it is silent except for the muted hum of clouds, of open air that moves in a current undefined by the human eye. The eye is too small, too primitive for processing more than a sliver, a silly little piece, of the energy spectrum—there is more to the universe than light, and my eyes are too undeveloped to know any difference.

As if Rachel hears me, she softens, becoming familiar again. _Nice view, isn't it?_ she says.

The other buildings, the ones far below, are markers. Splashes of color and shade. The cars are ants crawling within a grid. I try to focus, squinting and holding very still. I can maybe, maybe see a person getting into her car. She doesn't know I'm watching her, wondering what her day is like.

_I'm thinking about moving up here,_ Rachel says.

I look back at her. _Why?_

_I like it here. The air's fresh. It's quiet and undisturbed,_ Rachel says. She bites her lip, thinking. Her hand rests like a cat on her stomach, relaxed. _Up here I can be myself,_ she says.

My eyebrows pull away from the frown on my face. _Up here, but nowhere else?_ I say. When she shrugs in response, I look away, thinking of the right words to say. How to weave them together, how to cast them so they pin her down, immobilizing those insane ideas of hers. But I'm unpracticed in the art of persuasion, and the words unravel in my mouth.

_What about me?_ I say. _What if I want to see you?_

Rachel laughs in a mean way. _You know,_ she says, _you're too needy. Why don't you grow some balls or something?_

_You're acting like a bitch,_ I say.

_I'm not a bitch,_ she says.

_Not what I said. Being a bitch and acting like one are two different things._

_Smarty-pants over here,_ she says, rolling her eyes. Her hands wheel through the air for emphasis. _Someone get this girl a fucking medal in sophistry,_ she says.

_Sophist-what?_

_Thank god,_ she says, looking past my shoulder. _It's about time,_ she says, sighing.

I turn in my seat, and behind me, walking toward us, is a large man—the gray man—carrying a tray with two monstrous glasses.

_Mai tais?_ I say to Rachel, and she nods, her eyes wide. I know she's excited for her drink.

Looking at the glass, I feel a longing for summer, for teal-colored water and sugary beaches, for indulgent gulps of sunset air. The large umbrella growing from the brim shivers, sprinkling dewdrops to the floor when I pluck the cherry and the pineapple from it. Through the straw I draw out a nectar that brings me closer to the place from which the sweetness comes. The tropics. The South Pacific. An island on which the songs of birds with long, bright feathers echo through the trees.

Rachel slurps, searching for the remaining liquid with a big, green straw. _Pretty amazing, huh?_

_This is awesome,_ I say.

_I told you so._

_Okay,_ I say after sucking the glass empty, _some mai tais are good, I'll admit._ When I sit up straight, I think about ordering another.

_Marina?_ Rachel says, looking at me like I did something wrong. Like I forgot to say something important.

_Um, thank you?_

_I'm not the one you should be thanking,_ she says. With her head and a sideward glance, she motions me to turn around, to talk to him, the gray man.

I had forgotten about him until now. How long has he been waiting around? I'm aware when he's present, but this time, I lost track of him because I wasn't paying attention. I don't know what he's still doing here.

_Thank you,_ I say to him. I tap on the glass with my finger and continue. _These are great. Did you make them? It tastes like a tropical vacation_ , I say, trying to be courteous.

The gray man drops his head in the most minimal nod. He does not smile, and his skin is pale and off-color. Maybe he has cancer? Or maybe he's just fair, even albino—that would make more sense, because people with cancer are emaciated, their bodies held together by tape.

Rachel leans closer to me, giggling. _He's kind of shy,_ she says.

_You've said that before,_ I say. I look back at the waiter. _Well, thank you for the drink—it's great,_ I say to him. The urge to study him over, to make sense of his unbalanced serenity, the color of his eyes and what thoughts lie behind them, is strong but fades when my sister begins talking.

_Marina?_ she says.

_What?_ I make eye contact with her, and her face is serious. _What's up?_

_You're dying,_ she says.

_What do you mean?_

_You're always dying,_ she says. _We're all dying, everyone's dying, all the time. Life is just one long march to death, you know._

By now I refocus my attention to the empty mai tai glass. Some pineapple wedges and orange slices remain, and I pick them off the umbrella. When its handle is clean, I uproot it from the bed of ice and close it and open it several times, drying it off. I start inspecting it.

_Marina?_ Rachel says.

_I know, I know,_ I say, watching my fingers step across the umbrella's webbing. _But I have shit to do—I can't sit around worrying and drinking mai tais all day._

_Fine, whatever._

I stand up and turn in a circle. My sister watches me move around, and I turn to her. _Being dead isn't all that great, is it?_ I say.

_You could change that,_ she says, being quiet about it.

_What?_ _What are you talking about?_

She turns to me and frowns, scrunching her eyebrows together. _You could change that. Ask for a favor._

The words zip through me like electricity, hitting a chord, making it reverberate. Making it throb. I've been hoping for this for so long, but now that it's here, I don't know what to do. My thoughts have only progressed here; they've never pushed past this moment.

_Are you serious?_ I say. _Do you mean you could come back?_

Rachel shrugs. _You get to choose what you want._

Replaying her words in my head, I let them sink in. So _I_ get to choose? It's about what _I_ want? Me? I study my shoes for a moment then look up again at Rachel.

_What do you want, Rachel? Do you want to come back?_ I say to her, watching her face, her reaction. When it's not clear if she'll answer, I open my mouth again. _How will I know you won't do it again? Why did you do it in the first place? You've never given us an answer. You've never—_

_I'm trying to help you here!_ my sister says, snapping. _Give you a fucking second chance, a break or something._

_Then answer me, stop being so ambiguous. Just be straight for once, would you?_

Rachel keeps slipping out of my grip, avoiding direct questions. She gives nothing away, so, sighing, I throw up my hands. I let her go this time, and she keeps talking about the favors. About the wishes—it's all the conversation she'll allow, and I don't care anymore.

_You have three favors,_ she says _, so why wait? Why not ask for something you want? You can pick anything, for Christ's sake._

I stare at her, exhausted, not really knowing what to make of everything.

_We've gone over this before,_ she says. _You've got three of them. Three gifts._

_Gifts? Right._

Rachel rolls her eyes, sighing. _Don't play stupid. I'm getting tired of it,_ she says. _And besides, he's tried to tell you that already._

_What?_ I say. _What do you mean?_

_He'll keep reminding you_ , she says.

_I don't know what you're talking about_ , I say _. Would you—_

_Just look at him again_ , Rachel says, interrupting me.

To shut her up, I turn to look at the gray man standing nearby. It feels awkward, staring at someone, but when my eyes meet his, I forget about manners. Something about his gaze makes my throat swell and my stomach ball up. I don't want to know what he has to say. My body starts to tremble, so I look back toward Rachel. I tell her I want to go.

_Why? You scared or something?_ She snickers. _You're such a pussy sometimes._

_I'm just ready to go somewhere else,_ I say. _Why don't you come with me? We'll go see Mom and Max. We can even go see Mitch if you want..._

Rachel looks away from me to her empty glass. Her hair slides off her shoulder, hanging in front of her face while she toys with the leftover pieces of fruit and ice cubes. _Did you see the pineapple? These drinks are the best thing I've ever had_ , she says. She continues talking about the mai tais, how they have an ingredient—what, she doesn't know—that replenishes something in her, filling some hole she can't locate but feels. While her voice fades, I twirl my umbrella and then open and shut and open it again. I keep doing it, the opening and closing, because the umbrella inflates, growing bigger. It gets big enough to hold overhead and cover me from rain.

_I'm more excited about the umbrella,_ I say, interrupting. _It's more impressive. Do you know how many disappointing umbrellas I've had?_

_They're all shitty,_ she says, _because they're made cheap. Have you ever had a good one?_

_I have one now._

_Remember...._ she says, but I stop listening. With my back to her, I face the edge of the rooftop patio. In the distance the sky is blurred. The clouds have dissolved—they have mixed with the air, creating a muddle. An opaqueness. A disorienting place where there are no points of reference on which to hang guiding lines, no way to measure scale. It's a grayland, that place out there.

I look back at her over my shoulder. _Don't forget to enjoy the view,_ I say.

Before Rachel can get another word in, before she can call me back, I sprint toward the edge, toward the blur. Surprisingly, the last step there feels remote, happening outside of my body, happening somewhere else, even though it's my last sensation of solid ground.

# 8

At some point autumn slips away entirely and it's winter. Maybe the change happened because I started a new job—maybe I single-handedly made winter come when I walked into the store. On my first day, I had to scrape ice off my car before leaving for work, and when I left for home, the sky was already dark. Now it's cold enough I have to wear my snowboarding jacket and put on my beanie before going outside.

The learning curve at Remy's isn't as steep as I thought it would be, though I do learn a lot. After my first week, I was exhausted from standing all day, every day, for five days in a row. At the end of each shift, my legs ached, and when I went home, I collapsed in front of the TV. But I'm getting used to it, and by the next week, I don't feel as tired, though I'm still clumsy when folding T-shirts, wrapping merchandise to go in tissue paper or plastic bags, or counting money—I'm especially terrible with coins. My fingers lose their grip on pennies and dimes in the cash register drawer, and at first I have to count bills twice before handing back change. Some transactions are so slow they seem to cause physical pain: I can actually hear the customer's teeth grinding or jaw clenching.

I fear getting fired one day when Ron approaches, saying the till was off, that the numbers didn't match up from the previous day. The fear must show in my face—I feel my body melting from the inside out—but he tells me it's okay. I need to be better about cash, though. He shows me some techniques to use when dispensing change, because sometimes people test cashiers, try to exploit them. "Has anyone given you a ten dollar bill, but told you they gave a twenty?" I nod, and he says that's a trick, so he shows me how to avoid it by verbalizing the transaction and laying the customer's cash on the counter while taking the change from the till.

It's a surprise that I actually like Ron and Melinda. At first I didn't anticipate I'd enjoy my job or enjoy working with them, considering the fact that I don't like Angela, because how could anyone like her? She's rude, self-centered, and to go along with her spray tan and bleach-blonde hair, she has giant acrylic nails that she inspects and fusses over. And when she drums them on a table—which she does a lot—they are noisier than high heels clacking against pavement.

Ron and Melinda, on the other hand, are completely different. They're personable, talkative, outgoing. They're Deadhead hippies who wear dark colors and unflattering earth tones. For crying out loud, Ron has two full sleeves—some tats that are good, others not so much, especially the band names—and Melinda is a fifty-something-year-old woman with dreadlocks. It's kind of awesome.

As November creeps along and we prepare for the holiday season, I can't escape thinking about everything coming up. About Thanksgiving and then Christmas. About seeing people and buying gifts. What will I get Mom and Oscar? Max? Do I have to buy something for his girlfriend? Then there's my dad—there's him. Christmas is the only time except for my birthday that he ever calls me. Two phone calls a year—that's all the time he has for me, his own kid.

I get reminded of my former life when Justin texts me one day. I'd forgotten about our double date, the one I'd arranged for him and me with Claire and the other guy, what's-his-face. Justin suggests getting dinner and drinks, so we set a date and time. After putting my phone away, I want to feel excited, but can't help dreading seeing him again. Claire tells me I'm just nervous, that I want it to go well. That must be it.

When the day comes for our date, I leave work a few minutes early because Melinda says it's fine, no one wants to shop when it's rainy like this. I jog out to my car, trying to avoid getting drenched, even though it's kind of pointless—the bottom of my pant legs soak up water, becoming dark blue rings slapping my ankles. In my car it's freezing and the windows are cloudy, so I wait for the defroster to do its job. When I turn on the windshield wipers, though, they shudder and squeak so bad I get goose bumps. I try to ignore the sound, but it really is awful, so I stop by the auto parts store on my way home. Luckily, I get the new ones on without much of a struggle, though my fingers are frozen by the end of it.

When I finally get home, I'm glad Claire's there already. She hears me enter and shouts down the stairs at me.

"Can I look in your closet?" she says. "I can't find anything to wear."

"Yeah, sure." I walk upstairs and find her in my room, sifting through the hung-up stuff. "What are you looking for?"

She grumbles and frowns at the closet. "I can't find anything good for tonight." She looks at me. "What are you wearing?"

"I've got to take a shower really quick, I'm cold, but..." I walk over to my pile of clothes in the corner, the pile that won't go away. I find my green sweater and a pair of jeans. "I'm going to wear this, so take whatever you want," I say. I take a fast shower, not bothering to wash my hair, and change into clean clothes. When I come back, Claire's hands are still reaching into my closet like she's picking fruit from a tree.

"What do you think of this?" she says, holding up my blue polka-dot dress to her collarbone for me to see.

"Aren't you going to get cold? It's raining pretty hard."

"Right." She pauses. "Wait, can I borrow your boots? The brown ones? And what about this sweater?"

"Sure, go for it." I walk to the bathroom and toy with my hair. I let it down but decide that'll get annoying. I wrap it in a ponytail, but that doesn't look good, so I put it down again. I touch up my eye makeup, smear on some lip gloss, and find my coconut lotion to put on. I stare at the jewelry box on the counter, thinking I should find some earrings or a necklace, when Claire starts nagging me for being slow.

"I just got home, woman. Besides," I say, "you aren't even dressed yet."

"Am too."

"Who's driving?"

"You are," she says. "I drove last time, remember?"

Even though the streets are a soggy mess, it's Friday—people are out, clustering around bars and pushing into restaurant doors, plugging them up.

"Do you see a spot anywhere?" I say. Either side of the road is cluttered with cars parked bumper to bumper.

"I'm looking." She peers out the window while we circle the block. "There!" She points ahead to where a car is pulling away from the curb. Immediately I flip on my blinker and take his spot.

At the entrance to the restaurant is a line—I assume everyone in it is waiting to get in. Amid the cluster we spot Justin.

"Hey there, stranger," I say to Justin, touching his shoulder.

He turns around and smiles. "Hey yourself." He turns to Claire. "How's it going?"

"Other than the fact that I'm starving," she says, "it's good." She looks around. "Where's Kurt?"

"He's on his way." Justin pulls his phone from a jacket pocket and looks at it. "He should be here soon," he says, his head bent forward. He fumbles with his phone another moment before sliding it back into his pocket. Then he mentions something to Claire about their chemistry class, so I step away to ask for a table. The hostess glances at her clipboard and runs her finger down the list of names. She says the wait will be an hour, but they can take our number and call when a table is ready. She tells me that we should wait at the bar down the street, so that's what we do.

Once inside we squeeze in at the bar to order drinks. When I get the bartender's attention, I ask for an old-fashioned.

Justin leans in to my side. "What did you get?" he says, close to my ear. I strain to listen over the other conversations happening nearby, and after a second I realize what he said.

"Whiskey."

"That's your poison, huh?"

"Yes."

The bartender slides the drinks toward us, causing Justin's beer to slosh over the brim. I take a sip of my drink, and it's good.

"Cheers," he says. We clink our glasses together and take another sip. I turn around, looking for Claire, but find she's a yard away, talking to some guy with thick-rimmed glasses and ruffled hair.

"Is that Kurt?" I say to Justin.

"Yeah. Why don't I introduce you? It's probably a good time for that."

We walk to them, and I cling to Claire's elbow. Kurt looks at me. "Hi," I say, sticking out my hand. "I'm Marina."

He looks down and pauses before doing the same. "I'm Kurt." His hand escapes mine and retreats to his coat pocket.

"I've heard a lot about you," I say, but Claire's elbow pushes into my ribs, and I hold back, deciding to be good. "Nice to meet you."

Kurt nods and says something I can't hear. I turn back to Justin and ask him about the swim meet. His relay team didn't do so well—it turns out they were disqualified because of a false start.

"And I saw your friend there. What's her name again?"

"Who?"

"That blonde girl, the one with you at the alehouse, the last time."

"Do you mean the other girl at the pool?" I say. "Shell?"

"Yeah. She came up to me after the meet. Said hi."

I take a sip of my drink, finishing it. "She's not my friend," I say. "We just worked together when I was still lifeguarding."

Justin's mouth cracks open to reply, but we're interrupted by my phone ringing. It's the hostess calling, letting us know the table's ready. We cash out and leave the bar, and it's stopped raining outside (thank god), so we walk, unhurried. Before I know it, I'm taking a drag of my first cigarette in over five hours, and I tell Justin I'm excited to try this place—I haven't been to this restaurant before.

"It's called _Thai Time_ or something?" I say, laughing. "People keep telling me to go, and—"

"Cigarettes cause cancer, you know."

"What's that again?" I say, twirling, walking backward and sideward and forward. It's Kurt talking, I realize, because he's looking straight at me.

"Cancer, cigarettes are bad for you," he says. Meanwhile, Claire is looking to her side, pretending not to hear.

"No one smokes them because they're _good_ for you, genius. It's not really the point."

He snickers and raises an eyebrow, looking somewhere above my head and making a nasty face. "It's a dirty habit," he says to the air.

I stop, letting the distance between us shrink, and I empty my lungs. The vapor splashes on his face, twisting his eyebrows and mouth. "Well, I'm a dirty person," I say, "and you know what, Kurt? I don't even—"

"Hey, Marina," Justin says from behind. "Come back here." He grabs my hand and tugs, pulling me around, and I yip, nearly falling into him. He walks directly behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders to steer me. He's just the right height, because when I put my head back, it's right below his collarbone.

No wonder the wait was long—the restaurant is stuffed, overflowing with faces and elbows and arms. We squeeze through the aisles to our table, and the menu is just as overwhelming. The dishes list ingredients that I've never heard of. Vermicelli. Num. Tamarind. Chiang Mai sausage—I give up trying to decipher the plates and ingredients.

"It's all good," Kurt says. "I think we should get a bunch of stuff and eat family style."

I glance across the table at Claire, who doesn't look at me and instead continues staring down, reading the menu inches from her face. Justin asks me what I think, and I agree to the idea. Kurt orders, and not long after, our food arrives.

Spread before us are pickled green mango salad with peanuts, spicy chicken wings, and giant grilled prawns—the biggest prawns I've ever seen. They probably get them from some secret layer at the bottom the ocean. The noodle dishes are all different: one is spicy, another tangy, and the third, lemony. I use chopsticks until I get tired of watching the same noodles drop back onto my plate, so like any red-blooded American, I revert to the fork.

When we order coffee, it turns out to not be normal coffee but Thai coffee, which I've never had. The server brings glasses that have little metal pots on top, through which he pours hot water. He tells us to wait, just wait for the coffee to drip through—it's best that way. We just have to wait three minutes.

"What do you call it," I say to no one in particular, "when they do the coffee this way?" I lean forward to look at the little tiny pot.

"Pour over," Kurt says. "It's about done." He reaches for his cup, setting aside the metal pot, and brings it to his lips.

"It's good?" Claire says while disassembling hers too.

"Of course it's good." Kurt blows on the glass to cool the drink. "It's Gravity House."

I reach for the tiny pitcher of cream. "I think there's one of those coffee shops by my work. I go there sometimes."

"Where do you work?"

"At a gift shop," I say. "It's on Hawthorne, near Thirty-Fifth."

"I thought you were in school," Kurt says to me.

"Not now," I say. I stir the cream into my mug, watching the interior turn from brown to beige. "Taking a break."

"How do you know Justin? I thought you were on the swim team or something."

"No," I say, "I used to lifeguard at the pool."

Kurt cocks his head and shrugs, as if confused. "So, what exactly are you, then? A lifeguard? A salesperson?"

For all the answers I could come up with, all I can say is, "Yeah." My hands take turns grasping the mug, absorbing heat.

Of course this would happen. How could I not see it coming? I glance around the table from Claire to Kurt to Justin—all of them are students going pre-med. They're studying to work as doctors, to be researchers or specialists. They want to work in medicine, to cure Alzheimer's, to treat children with cancer, to save the world. They're preparing to do these things while I linger here, on the side, drifting in a slower current. One that's only fast enough to deal with counting change and folding clothes.

My stomach tightens, and I glance at Claire. I don't want it to be true, but when I look at my best friend sitting next to these two guys, I know. I understand how things will change at some point. How they're changing now. The distance already is sprouting, and it'll grow. It won't matter what I do.

"Excuse me," I say. "I'll be right back."

Before anyone has a chance to catch my eye, I snatch my purse and get up. It's raining again outside. I pull my hood over my head and follow the outer wall of the restaurant. When I find a spot that's right, I pull out my lighter and Marls and feel better once the smoke hits my lungs. I listen to the rain, noticing the raindrops splattering on the asphalt, on the rooftops nearby, on the surfaces of the trees lining the street. And the rain makes the air smell clean.

"Hello, ma'am?" someone says.

I turn around. A guy wrapped up in an oversized hoodie is walking toward me.

"You got a light?" he says.

"Yeah." I reach into my purse and hand it to him. He takes it and tries to light his cigarette, but the flame doesn't stay lit long enough. He tries again, but the spark flickers before going dead.

"Sorry, it's on its last legs." I motion for him to give it back. "Here, let me do it."

He gives it back and steps closer. I work the lighter while he leans toward it, hands cupped in front of his face, shielding the flame from the wind and the rain. It works.

"Teamwork," he says after his first drag. "Thank you. I'm Matt."

"Marina," I say, nodding. "Nice to meet you." I exhale and switch hands, putting the cold one in my pocket. "Beautiful night, huh?"

He exhales and smacks his lips. "Just perfect. We should have a fucking picnic."

I laugh. "Let's set up a lemonade stand and make sno-cones, sell ice cream." I exhale and laugh again.

"No shit," he says.

When my cigarette is done, I drag it across the sidewalk. I turn on my heels, looking for a trash can.

"Around the corner," he says to me. "There's one by the door." He points ahead, toward the front of the restaurant.

"Thanks." I nod at him and wave. "Have a good one," I say. I get to the trash can and drop the cigarette butt inside. Then my breath catches in my throat. My limbs feel weak. Maybe I should run to the ladies' room.

A sliver of milky-blue brightness peeks out from under the cuff of my sleeve. Reluctantly, I pull back the cuff a little. Do I really want to see it? No. But I can't help but go through with it, pulling my sleeve halfway to my elbow so I can see both the backside and palm of my hand. So I can see the glowing imprints that remain, that unexplainably persist.

From afar, Matt laughs. "You have a good night too," he says. "And thanks for the light."

I look at Matt again, remembering he's there. I think for a second about asking him about the phosphorescence, about what he thinks of my hand, but I decide against it. I nod at him, acknowledging his thank-you. Then I pull my sleeve down and crisscross my arms, making sure nobody else can see.

I navigate back to the table and sit down. For a second, the thought crosses my mind that I could ask the gray man for a different life. I could wish to be smart or to have a lot more money. I could wish for something, for anything to be fixed, for an end to this gap I feel widening between me and the rest of the world.

Quickly, though, I redirect my attention at the table, noticing that everyone's coffee is empty except for mine.

Claire turns to me, her bright green eyes foreign, somehow. She smiles. "We missed you," she says.

"I'm back now." I sip my coffee, which is cold and really sugary. "What did I miss?"

She leans forward and rambles about O-Chem, about how Professor Chan hadn't noticed one of his pant legs was stuck in his sock. He spent the entire lecture in front of class that way, not knowing how silly he looked. It's too bad no one said anything—it could've been changed so easily.

"Someone should've told him," Claire says, sitting up straighter as she speaks.

"Why didn't you do it?" Kurt says, looking at Claire.

"Because I would've felt terrible! How would that have gone? I'd have held up my hand, and said 'Excuse me, Professor Chan? Your, um...your pants?'"

"So," Kurt says, "you'd rather feel bad _for_ someone than let yourself feel bad?"

Claire bites her lip. "I guess..."

When the bill comes, only Justin has cash. To make things easier, I say I'll pay for Claire's share. She reaches for her purse, asking me if I'm sure, but I say it's fine because I kind of owe her. She's been expecting this, I can tell, so she thanks me and starts putting on her jacket. The hostess runs our cards, and Justin slips a twenty to Kurt, and while my pen hovers above the tip line, Kurt blurts out that I should tip fifteen bucks.

"I know how to calculate a tip," I say.

"Just saying. I already did it."

I look at the bill and add the numbers. "That's over twenty-five percent."

"The service was good," he says, shrugging. "The food was better."

I scribble down half that and sign my name. "Done." I turn to Claire. "We better get going."

On our way out of the restaurant, I keep as much distance as possible between myself and Kurt. When Claire and I have to leave the guys for my car, she hesitates, lingering on the sidewalk, talking to Kurt. She ignores me standing there, so I have to grab her arm and tug, breaking the roots binding her feet in place. It isn't until we get to the car that I realize I forgot to tell Justin good-bye.

When we get home, Claire doesn't linger, doesn't seem interested in hanging out. She doesn't go to the kitchen for a drink or even pull her laundry from the dryer—she never lets her clothes sit long after they're done, as she doesn't like them wrinkled or cold. Instead, she hurries up the stairs, closes the door, and disappears into her bedroom. The snap of her releasing the doorknob is loud enough to hear from downstairs, from the couch.

I reach for my laptop and drag it across the coffee table, reeling it into my lap. I check my bank account balance, my email, the minutes used on my phone. All the things I can think of, I check, logging into one site after another in an effort to engage, to be involved with the world outside. It's not until I get to the pictures, to the posts of people's statuses, their jokes, the links they've shared, that I forget about dinner. Those memories are dumped out, released, as I squint at my computer screen.

I see Max's face, grimy and stretched thin by a toothy smile, pressed against Angela's cheek. They're side by side at a table, sitting in some dark restaurant speckled with candles. Max's shirt is colored. Is it purple? Yes. Purple. He's wearing a color he had long ago claimed to hate. My brother doesn't wear purple—at least not the guy I know. Because Max has always hated wearing what he calls "girl colors" like pink, purple, or any type of pastel. The Max I know slouches in front of a TV, hunched over the game controller in his hands. He likes rock and alternative and doesn't mind letting his sisters borrow his music. He wants to know who their boyfriends are so he can hate them, so he can threaten them when necessary. But that is the old Max, not the one I'm looking at now.

I scroll down the page, leaving my brother behind. I look for my sister's name, and there it is: Rachel Magana. I click on it. The profile page is covered with comments. One of them says _Miss you, Ra-Ra Boone_ , and another _Hope you find the peace you were looking for_. Some I read, some I skip. Some I dismiss, wondering, why write at all on a dead person's page? Is it because there's a chance, through some deep connection, some raw magic, they'll get your message? Why push the words out, why put them in this place for everyone to see? Is it to get credit, to get recognition for feeling shitty? Because trust me, dude, you're not the only person on the planet who feels bad. You're not the only friend she had.

I tell myself to leave, but find myself clicking through the pictures of her. There are some old ones, some photos with me in them. I'd forgotten until now that I bleached then dyed my hair purple junior year—a terrible idea, because after a few washes the dye wore out, becoming a bland, neglected muddle that made me look red in the face.

In another photo we're standing in the snow, dressed in snowboarding clothes, with evergreen forest behind us. It takes me a moment to place it—being on the mountain with Rachel, with Max and our cousins. Looking at this photo reminds me how dried up I've become, how much of the past I've already forgotten. I'm thankful the picture jogs my memory, because the next picture I see does no such thing.

In the next photo, Rachel's eyes are pinched shut and her mouth is a knot low on her chin; her hand is in the air, wafting something from her face. The backdrop is a kitchen, a place I don't recognize. Maybe Mitch's? A coworker's house? What was she doing, anyway? I can't tell if she's making a face on purpose, trying to be funny, if she's reacting to a smell, or if she's just taken a bong rip and is holding in a cough. Maybe it was taken mid-conversation, this picture, when she was gesticulating about something, being dramatic. It could be any of these things, but ultimately, it's a picture I don't know, a picture about which I'll never learn more. It's in another dimension, a world forever faraway, whose mysteries I can only fill in with guesses, with imagination, with complete fiction. Because here, she's just a girl in a photo.

# 9

After our double date, Claire and I don't see each other for a while. Classes and work get busy for her, and I go to Remy's. One night she leaves me a sticky note on the counter, letting me know she made spaghetti and saved a plate for me, so I get it out of the fridge and heat it for dinner. It's nice. She does nice things like that, so I return the favor. Some nights I save leftover quesadillas, and others, mac and cheese. One night she makes stir-fry with broccoli and mushrooms, leaving me a bowl of leftovers—the rice is still warm, not having been in the fridge too long. I just missed her, almost crossing her path, but not quite.

When Claire and I do see each other, things are nice again. Normal. It's the same Claire I know, the one who doesn't avoid me or act embarrassed of me in front of other people. That night we binge on chips, destroying a really big bag by the time our movie is over. When we talk about needing to turn in, we procrastinate, blaming laziness. We're too comfortable on the couch, too warm under the throw blankets. So I browse through shows and pick one. We watch TV for a little while longer before Claire goes to bed. I go outside for one last smoke before turning in myself.

At some point, I start getting texts from my mom. She invites me over for dinner once, then again. I tell her I have to work. Then the questions turn into wanting advice on clothes, jewelry, nail colors. She mentions dyeing her hair red. She's been toying with the idea for a while, she says, but isn't sure and for some reason wants my opinion. I respond some of the time, but as Thanksgiving approaches, she starts calling me. I don't answer, and she doesn't leave messages.

When my mom calls again one day after I get home from work I decide to pick up. In her voice there's too much excitement, too much relief. She asks about work—she heard I got the job at the gift shop. I ask her how she knows. Max told her, she says, and I keep my mouth shut about how irritating that is. Why does Max think he can deliver my news? He didn't even ask me about it. Not one damn text. And though we haven't talked, apparently it doesn't matter. He has Angela for news about me and my life.

My mom lets the small talk wind down before bringing up Thanksgiving. She says Aunt Rita is in Arizona this year, so nobody's going to her house. Part of that is a relief because I hate Aunt Rita's house: it smells like sweat.

"We're having Thanksgiving this year," Mom says. "It's just us."

"Who's that?" I say. I pinch the phone between my ear and shoulder while holding a cup of noodles under the faucet.

"Well, just me, Oscar, you, and Max says Angela's parents are out of town, so he's planning to come too."

"Is he bringing Angela?"

"Yeah. She wants to stay with Max for the holidays—I think it's a serious thing. You know, I have a feeling he's going to propose." She laughs. I can hear her smiling, fluff in her voice.

I put my noodles in the microwave and set the timer. I grab the phone and hold it on the other ear. "I've got to check some things out first," I say. "I'll see what I can do."

"What do you mean? You don't have to work or anything, do you?"

I tell her I don't know, the store is busy and I don't want to lose my job by asking for time off. She says that's crazy, everyone should have Thanksgiving off, that it's a family day. I tune out and interrupt the microwave before it dings.

"I'll let you know," I say, and I'm glad when she's silent. I have the upper hand still. When she changes the subject to ask about Claire, I say she's good and busy with school. Not long after that, I tell my mom I have to go because I'm eating dinner but I'll talk to her later.

I haven't seen Max since...how long has it been? Fourth of July weekend? That sounds about right. Every plan we've made since, he's cancelled, bailing on me for work or because "something came up." That has become the classic Max tagline. Something came up.

The more I think about the holidays, the more dread I feel. I try to shove it down, thinking I'll figure everything out later, but when I'm at work folding T-shirts or organizing a shelf, I have no choice. The thoughts come back, taking over my head for hours. When I see Claire next, I ask if I can come to her family's Thanksgiving. It surprises me when she turns away, shrugging. "I don't know," she says to the wall before walking away. Later I try a different angle and ask again, but I don't get a better response. My chances aren't bettered by Kurt stopping by—they take over the living room to study. By then I get it that Claire isn't going to budge, and I count the days as they fall away.

I don't sleep well the night before Thanksgiving. I wait until two in the morning to go to bed, and when I get there, it's hard to tell if I've fallen asleep, because my thoughts rotate in my head, going round and round, keeping me awake. At the height of it, I tell myself it's only one day. A few hours. Dinner. If I go or don't, either way, it's not a huge commitment. I won't have to endure it for long, or I won't be missing much and life will go on. I could watch movies and relax, spend a day on the couch. But even though it sounds amazing—lounging all day with popcorn and TV—my reluctance to be alone looms, growing big and bigger. It grows big enough to crowd everything else out.

When I can't sleep anymore, I get up to make coffee and have a smoke. While sitting on the stoop, I look at the sky, dark at one end and at the other light. The stars haven't faded entirely, and there's pink in the clouds. It occurs to me that of all the things Rachel gave up—there are so many—she chose to give this up, seeing a sunrise.

I get cold and go back inside, where I proceed to riffle through the cupboards, looking for ingredients for a dessert to bring. I want to make pie, which I've done before once—it wasn't that hard. I find a recipe online and start working. When Claire wakes up and finds me in the kitchen, she offers to help by running to the store for the remaining ingredients while I make the dough. She gets back with canned pie filling, two cans of whipped cream, and a few cans of evaporated milk. I show her the recipe, and we double the filling ingredients, dropping them into a bowl, mixing them well, and then pouring the filling into each of the pie plates. It takes the pies longer to bake than I thought it would, but by the end of it, we each have a pie.

Part of me wants to ask again if I can come to her Thanksgiving. After all, I've known Claire and her family for a really long time. Ever since middle school we had lots classes together, and I came over to study and hang out at her house all the time. We watched movies and talked about boys when no one else was around. Sometimes I ate dinner with her family before going home. There wasn't anything special about spaghetti or chili, but for some reason, whatever her mom made seemed like the best thing I'd ever tasted.

Then, last year, Claire's family helped us move into our apartment, which is when I saw them last. Even her little sister Meghan came, and though she couldn't lift a feather, it was sweet how she tried. With her twiggy arms and pencil-thin torso, she wasn't capable of anything except holding a door open. I ask Claire how Meghan is doing, if she's liking high school—she's a freshman now—and Claire says probably. She mentions that her sister is playing basketball, but nothing more. At that I decide to back off, not to push my luck. I finish doing the dishes without asking more questions, and when Claire gets ready to leave, I give her a hug and say good-bye.

After calling my mom to ask about dinner, I take a shower and struggle to find something to wear. When I'm ready to leave, I pack the pie as carefully as I can by wrapping it in plastic wrap and sliding a paper bag over it. I get in the car and smoke two cigarettes on the way. When I arrive at my mom's house, I see an unfamiliar car—a Mercedes—in the driveway. Is it Angela's car? Of course it is. Has to be.

Like normal, Cece starts barking as soon as I touch the doorbell. Her barks are followed by heavy footsteps and then shushes directed at the dog. When Oscar opens the door, he smiles at me. "Hey, Monkey Girl." He steps backward, ushering me inside.

"Hi, Oscar," I say, kicking off my shoes. "How's it going?"

He says good, things are fine. He looks at what I'm carrying. "Is that pie you've got there?" he says.

"You bet it is."

He places a hand on his gut, patting it. "I'm going to have to save room," he says. "Let me take that for you. Your mom's in the kitchen, and Max and Angela—"

"Whose car is that?" I turn and point to the black Mercedes. It makes my black car look gray.

"Max's. He got it last month." He takes the pie from me. "Sure is nice—leather interior, seat warmers, and they put back-up cameras in those things. Do you know about those? He took me for a ride this morning—"

The dog's barking grows louder, and I shout at the dog, "Cece! Stop it!" I step toward her, crouching and pointing. She jumps away and quiets, but she starts barking again, so Oscar grabs her by the collar and leads her into the garage.

I walk down the hallway toward everyone else in the house. My skin grows hot, tingling around my face, as I get closer. It can't be that bad. I know them, I remind myself. I know them all. It'll be fine.

I walk into the living room to find Max and Angela on the couch, watching a basketball game on TV. I'm sure they heard me walk in, but they don't turn to look my direction.

"Hi guys," I say.

"Hi, Marina," says my brother as he turns to look my way. Angela's gaze follows, and she half waves as if it's an afterthought.

I ask who's playing. Max says it's Denver and Salt Lake City but not much is happening yet since it's only the first quarter. This should be a good game, though. Then he turns back to the TV and Angela lays her head on his shoulder.

I watch for a minute, debating whether or not to sit down. I hear a metal pan clatter in the kitchen, so I walk that way.

"Mom?" I say. "What are you doing?"

"Trying," she says, bent forward, hands reaching into the oven, "to get this turkey to cook through. That's what." She closes the door, sighing, and stands upright to look at me. Little beads of sweat glisten on her brow, and her eyes don't crinkle in the corners when she smiles.

"Can I help? Maybe I can cut vegetables or something."

"Oscar's already made a salad, and the mashed potatoes are on the counter, there." She points at a big green ceramic bowl. "The green bean casserole is in the crockpot..." She turns around, surveying the kitchen as if to make sure nothing got stolen.

The table needs to be set, so I take the liberty of doing that. I get the nice placemats, the golden ones we usually use at Christmas, and set five on the table. Once I get the wine glasses, silverware, and plates out, I arrange them so each setting is the same. Then it seems crowded, so I start to rearrange everything. Oscar checks with my mom about where we're at with time, then approaches me.

"It's fine like this," he says. "Just leave it." He motions to the living room. "Go relax and watch the game. Your mom says we're waiting on the turkey."

I say okay and leave the kitchen for the living room. I sit down in the big recliner. It rocks back a lot, scaring me for a second, before stabilizing. I ask Max and Angela what parts of the game I missed.

"The Nuggets were ahead until the last minute of the second quarter..." He describes the play Denver made before Salt Lake stole the ball and scored on a fast break. Someone sank a three-pointer shortly thereafter, and then, when Denver missed that rebound, the other team brought the ball up fast and scored again. As Max talks, his face looking more at the TV than at me, I feel like we've become strangers. Only by circumstance do we have anything in common.

The halftime commentary comes on, and Angela gets up to use the bathroom. Max casts his face downward, looking at his phone. I try to think of something else to talk about.

"Max," I say, "did you bring your guitar?"

He looks up from his phone. "Yeah, why?"

I shrug. "The turkey's not done yet. Maybe we can play something. There's another guitar around here." I don't want to say it's Rachel's guitar, because her name rips a hole in the air—everyone knows that. By unspoken agreement we avoid doing it.

Max says sure, he'll play for a bit. His answer lifts something, making me feel bouncy, and I leave to get the guitar. When I open the door to my old room, I'm surprised to find empty space, the absence of those cardboard boxes blocking the bed. Did Mom get rid it all? I look in the closet. She must've unpacked the boxes and put some of the stuff in here, since several things are hanging in the closet that weren't here earlier. I go through what's new, finding some of the things are mine. Like my red plaid hoodie. That's funny—I thought I'd lost it.

"Thanks, Rachel. I wondered where this went." I take the sweatshirt off the hanger and look it over. It still smells like her, like Rachel, even after all this time in a box, in a dark corner away from the light of day.

I slide more hangers across the hanging rod, recognizing some things and not others. There's a pink T-shirt with skulls. A white summer dress. A belt with red painted diamonds and a Western buckle. When did Rachel get this stuff, any of it? Maybe these items were someone else's—that could be. That's less likely. Somehow I feel like I should've known of the existence of these things, that she's more of a stranger than I thought.

Last year's Thanksgiving at Aunt Rita's house, Rachel and I accidentally got really drunk before dinner. At least it seemed like an accident—it always does. She had brought a bottle of whiskey, and we started sipping from it upstairs in Aunt Rita's den while we were waiting for dinner to start. When they called us to come down, I almost tripped going down the stairs, and then later I almost dropped my plate when I was looking for a place to sit. Rachel was gritting her teeth, trying not to laugh at me. The rest of the dinner we spent trying to remain undetected, though I doubt it worked.

Max is calling me from down the hall, telling me to hurry up. I look around the room for the guitar case. I climb two steps on the bunk-bed ladder, feel around, and find it's still there. I pull it down and lay it on the twin bed below. I undo the clasps, push the lid back, and look at the guitar inside. No one's touched it since I did.

Back in the living room, I sit down and rest the guitar on my thighs. My out-of-shape wrist is stiff when I try to assume the proper position. My fingers feel sore when I press on the strings. I start warming up with a song I know, the melody coming out in chunks.

"It's out of tune," Max says to me. I fiddle with the guitar, twisting the pegs until the sound is better, but my fingers are clumsy.

We used to spend summers doing this in L.A. We would wake up because it got hot, and then we went downstairs and ate Pop Tarts—our mom never used to buy them, but Dad, though, that's all he fed us when we came. We'd watch TV and play in the yard, spraying each other with the garden hose, and in the afternoon we'd dink around, fiddling with any instruments we found around the house. Dad would show us how to play certain songs, always making corrections by picking up our fingers and repositioning them elsewhere on the strings.

"What do you want to play?" I say to Max.

"How about..." he says, suggesting a song by starting to play it.

"No, not that one." I could never get that song right. I play with the strings, strumming the notes to a different song, one with simpler chords. It's one I know because I played it over and over, from beginning to end, when Dad got me my guitar. I was in middle school. He'd gotten Max and Rachel guitars by then, and when I got mine, I finally felt like I belonged. Included. I was like the rest, like my brother and sister.

Max starts playing along, matching me, keeping up. He knows this one, because we sound good for a bit. One second I stumble, missing a note. We start and stop, though, having to ask the other what comes next or how it goes. Then we pick up where we leave off, and we keep playing until we get interrupted.

"Guys," Mom says, stepping into the room, "are you at a good stopping point? Dinner's ready."

Mom and Oscar have arranged everything on counter, buffet style, because there's not enough room for everything on the table. I walk through the line, grabbing a little of everything, and when we sit down, we all go through what we're thankful for. Mom says being together today, Oscar says good health, Angela says good health, and Max and I both say good food.

"What's the score of the game?" Max says to me, since I'm the one facing the TV.

"Um, hold on." I squint, looking across the room. "Sixty-five to seventy-one, Denver's up." I smother my roll with butter and watch it begin to melt. "Who you think is going to win?"

"Denver," Max says. Oscar seconds it, and then we're all chewing.

"So, Marina," Angela says, "how are Melinda and Ron? I haven't seen them in such a long time."

"They're good," I say after swallowing some turkey. "Things are busy with the holidays coming up. And they've had a lot of messed-up orders from distributors, so they're kind of stressed out."

She takes a sip of wine. "Ron gets stressed out? I don't know if I can imagine what that looks like."

"He rolls his eyes a lot." I wipe my mouth with my napkin and clear my throat. "And he grinds his teeth."

Angela laughs, saying she's struggling to picture it. "Does he still have his long hair?"

I nod. Angela goes on to say when she was little, she and her sister would tug on his braid and then go hide, and after, he went around asking if anyone had seen someone sneaking around, pulling on his hair. Angela and her sister loved this game; sometimes they said nobody, sometimes they blamed a ghost, and sometimes they pointed fingers at one another.

"My sister was the worst," Angela says. She smacks her lips and holds her eyes closed, as if seeing the scene play out. "She'd straight up blame me. It made me so mad!"

I try to imagine Angela as a kid, playing with Ron. What did they look like back then? How did they act when they had family get-togethers? What kind of people are Angela's parents? I wonder, because Angela doesn't seem to fit in with Ron and Melinda's type. There's a lot I don't know about all of them, I'm sure.

My mom asks Max and Angela about their jobs, how work is going at Intel. Things are good, they say, and the company is doing really well this year. They're preparing to roll out a new processor chip next year, or something of the sort. Something that's a big deal.

When we're done eating, I help Oscar collect plates. We scrape off the dishes into the trash, start the dishwasher, and pack away the leftovers. Oscar wastes no time asking about dessert, if we're ready for it now. Even though I'm full, I say sure, and I'll get it started. I cut up the pie, careful to slice through the crust on the bottom. I serve five pieces onto small plates, squirt a dollop of whipped cream on each one, and get forks. With three plates in hand, I walk to the table, where my mom, Max, and Angela are talking about taxes. I give a plate to my mom, who says thank you, and I set down the other two plates in front of the others. Max glances down and claws at his slice of pie, bringing it closer, and starts eating. Angela, on the other hand, stiffens into the back of her chair.

"I don't eat this stuff," Angela says. "I hate pumpkin—it has a terrible taste."

"Then what do you eat?" I say, my voice rising. She says she's never liked pumpkin pie, that her mom used to make it at Thanksgiving and Christmas. It was never sweet enough, and she doesn't like the spices used in it.

I wonder how I could be so stupid, because of course this would happen. How didn't I see this coming? The last time Angela made me feel like this was at Max's birthday last year. At dinner she made a point of stating how trashy bumper stickers were. The adhesive never comes off, even as the sticker peels away. All they do is make the car look junky, and you'd have to be a moron to put one on your car. After she said that, Rachel and I shared a moment across the table, our eyes wide. Angela had seen my car—including stickers on the bumpers and in the back window—because, earlier that afternoon, she and Max had pulled up next to me, and we stood in the parking lot talking. Max had asked me if I'd changed the oil recently and asked about coolant, so we stood by the car, giving Angela plenty of time to take note of it.

I pivot, turning to face her, and put a hand on my hip. "Do you have a problem with me?" I say.

"No," she says, looking down at the table, "of course not. That's ridiculous."

Max butts in. "She just doesn't like pumpkin. It's not a big deal."

"You expect me to believe that?" I say, the words spilling out. "You're always rejecting me, like I'm not good enough." I don't think I'm shouting, but by the looks of everyone else in the room, they think I am.

"That's not true, Marina. I just don't want to eat this."

"You could be nicer about it, instead of acting like a stuck-up princess."

She turns to me, her penciled eyebrows raised and head skewed. "And you could ditch that chip on your shoulder, show some manners." She glares, the skin around her eyes puckering, and her eyes turn dark. "Stop the pity party. It doesn't do anybody any good."

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" I say. A flickering image runs through my mind in which I stand here rubbing pie in her face. The gloppy filling would slough off, leaving behind a smearing of burnt-orange paste. Pieces of crust would stick to her skin and eyelashes. They'd get caught in her hair.

"It wouldn't be so hard if you grew up and stopped blaming people for your problems."

"Is that what you think this is?" I say, my fingertips pressed to my chest. "I'm blaming _you_ for everything that's wrong in the world?"

"Marina—"

"Because if you do," I say, "you're a bigger moron than I thought."

Someone shouts at me, but I don't know who. My cheeks are burning. My lungs are ready to burst. My brain is melting, along with my sense of personal space.

"Forget it," I say under my breath. "I'm going." I leave the kitchen, hurrying to find my purse and shoes. I run for the door.

"Marina!"

"What?" I say, looking over my shoulder at Max. His fists are clenched into tight balls, showing his knobby knuckles. His face is on fire, and though I know he wouldn't ever pummel me into the ground, the way he's standing makes me think it's not out of the question. Through the wall I can hear Cece barking.

"You need to apologize. Right now," Max says.

There are so many things I want to say, but none of them come. They are scattered, floating far away, forever beyond my lips. I regard my brother for a moment, a moment that I want to count, to mean something. Instead, though, it wavers, becoming a hot smear that I can't make out. "Go fuck yourself," I say before flinging myself out the door.

I run to my car and tumble inside. Everything is blurred, and nothing is moving fast enough. I turn the ignition and peel out, making the tires screech. I punch the gas before reaching the first stop sign, then, after stopping, I floor it again. The car almost goes fast enough to squeeze my thoughts away. It feels good, driving like this, so I drive faster.

Everything is wrong. My life. The people in it. Me, I'm wrong. Wrong on so many levels. I hate everything. The pressure in my chest increases so much that, to relieve it, I do what I've been aching to for so long—

I scream.

When I stop screaming, I feel scared, not better. So I inhale and scream again. This time, though, I only feel tired, shaky, and my throat is stretched out.

All I want is to go away, to be somebody else. I would finally feel better, because I wouldn't be me anymore. I would be free. To be free is something useful. Something godly...

A red light appears, and I stop. In my car there's music playing, but I can't hear it. The sounds coming from the speakers are isolated scraps of noise fluttering at me as I use my sleeve to wipe tears away from my cheeks. When I still can't see, I blot my eyes, but they fill again and become unreliable. I drop my gaze into my lap where my hands lay curled, shriveled, looking pathetic. I hate everything. I just want to go home, to be in my room where I can be alone to think. Once the light turns green, I can be moving again.

Loud honking noises make me look up and glance in the rear-view mirror. The driver behind me is waving his arm, exasperated. Ahead of me, the traffic light is green. Funny how the colors mean what we want. Red is stop, a warning. Danger. And yellow is slow, but only for traffic lights. Then there's green, which is go. Green is a safe color, a calm color. It was Rachel's favorite.

My palm lands on the shifter knob, and my fingers curl around it. I shove the stick shift into first gear. I give it gas, and immediately I'm moving again. I'm going home, whatever that's supposed to mean.

But as the car thrusts forward, an unfamiliar brightness appears. I cover my eyes with the back of my hand, making a shield, and try to regain my footing. Why is it so bright? I glance to my left, from where I think the brightness is coming, and in the moment that arrives and vanishes, I try to figure out what's happening. At first it doesn't make sense, the abrasive light slicing into my space. I can't place it, can't assemble the pieces for the picture to be clear.

But then I get it. I close my eyes and turn away from the window. I'm not fast enough to do anything else.

And I finally hear it—the shattering of glass.

# 10

Outside, somewhere else, the world goes on without me. The sounds swirl around, milky. I feel the shapes of voices stacking on top of one another, a collage of noises.

I open my eyes because my shoulder feels warm. I can't keep ignoring it, the jiggling, the airy throbbing, so I shiver and wake up. But I wasn't asleep, I don't think. At least it seems like I wasn't. But sleeping isn't something you feel, now, is it?

Pushing on my shoulder is a hand, a man's hand. I look at the large knuckles. The darkish fingernails are wider than they are long. His face—I get a glimpse of the face to which the hands belong, though my eyes have a hard time focusing long enough to recognize this person. I ask if I was sleeping, and I say sorry. I keep saying I'm tired, but the man says no and mumbles something before yelling over his shoulder. I can't hear it, but the tendons in his neck tighten, becoming so tense they're ready to snap under his skin.

I want to look at him, to see if it's the gray man, though I don't think it is, but it's too much work: the turning, tilting my chin up, and focusing my eyes. The air's too heavy, or I'm too weak to move, like a fly drenched in goo. When my eyelids drop, the sounds bury me again. I listen. I remember. I forget. And there's more jiggling, here and there. My eyes open several times—I see faces and other hands. Some are gloved, covered in fabric and rubber or latex. Out of nowhere I convulse, feeling the noises outside rubbing against me. They make me sick enough to throw up onto someone's shoe.

After slithering in and out of consciousness, I gather enough brainpower to make note of my surroundings. I'm in a hospital. I'm in a hospital with off-white walls that never end, and I'm on a bed that has no motor but sounds like it does. It hums. I close my eyes and wait for the humming to stop.

A strange voice hovers in the air, ratcheting itself closer. I think the voice belongs to a man, and it gurgles my name. "Marina? Can you hear me?" he says, his words echoing. I look at him, breaking my eyelids apart from each other. The air stirs, and he hovers close. He smells spicy. I focus enough to meet his eyes. "You're at the hospital," he says, "and we're going to keep you here overnight. We're going to call your emergency contact."

I tell him to call my mom, please. That's best.

Who is she? he wants to know. What's her name?

"Hmm?" I say, but then he disappears, and I'm alone again. I focus on the room, trying to command my eyes, but all the lights are so bright it's hard to see. My arm flinches, and I notice a thing attached to it. There's a big needle there, stuck under my skin. With my other hand, I touch it.

"No, no," says a woman who appears out of nowhere. "Don't fiddle with that, young lady. You'll want that just how it is—you'll see." When she grabs my wrist, pulling it from the needle, her arm flesh sways off her bones. She smells like lilacs, and I want her to be my grandma.

"What's going on?" I say to her, but I can't understand what she says. "Excuse me?" I say, asking again, but she says she'll be back soon, she has to go check something else. Soon I'm alone in the stuffy room with machines and devices all beeping and clicking. I want to shrivel into a ball, to shrink away where nobody can see me, but the idea makes me sick again. The nausea grows larger, feeding itself, consuming me. In my last act of resistance, I grab the feeling of sickness by the wrists and shove into it. We tumble, rolling around, fighting. A wave breaks us apart, ripping the weight off of me and allowing me to inflate, to expand like a balloon until my eyes burst open. When the light floods in, I see the face of a man. He looks up from his clipboard at me.

"Hello, Marina," he says while half-mindedly scribbling something on his clipboard. "I'm Dr. Knight," he says. "Can you hear me okay?"

I mutter something in reply about how I understand I'm messed up but don't remember everything. He nods, then explains that I was in a car accident—that's why I'm here.

"An accident?" I say, wondering how it came to be. Words come out of my mouth, but my head is one big bruise.

His talking continues, and his voice is high-pitched, not very doctor-like. Dr. Knight says I lost consciousness, and it's common not to remember anything when you black out from trauma.

I look down at my legs but can't move my head very far. The physicians are studying a lot of things, he explains. Something about my neck, then my left knee—that's why it's propped up on a pillow. He starts talking about spleens, about what they do. Their main function is to filter blood, something about red blood cells, and they also help the immune system stay strong, to combat disease. People can live without them, though. When he mentions we're not there yet, in my case—they don't know if I'll need to have it removed—I close my eyes again. I want to be buried.

Dr. Knight's voice hops away, and someone else arrives to fiddle with my IV drip. Within minutes I feel softened, warm. I turn into putty and don't care.

A woman comes later to do tests, a radiology technician. She pads around my bed on cat feet, but the sound of ripping plastic marks her location in the room. I look at her, and she narrates what she's doing while doing it. She props a cold board behind my ribs, telling me she's taking a quick picture. Next she shifts it behind my neck, then behind my back. Her movements are quick but articulate, like a dancer. The last picture she takes before leaving is of my knee, the messed-up one.

When I think I hear my name, I open my eyes but see no one. My sight fades again until my name shakes me awake. I see my mom standing above my bed, red-faced and puffy.

Seeing her eyes is all it takes for me to collapse, to start crying. I haven't been scared until now. Somehow, seeing it on her face means it's real. When I sniffle she swoops in, coming closer to examine me with shaky touches. She hugs my fingers with her hands. Her grip feels like a warm blanket.

"Sweetheart," she says. She covers her mouth with her fist, trying to stave off hiccups. "I'm glad you're okay. I got this call, and I was so scared, and..." she says, but instead of finishing her sentence, her eyes close, squeezing out more tears.

My head is slushy on the inside, packed with wet cotton. More fluid seeps out of my eyes and nose, and Mom looks away, over her shoulder. She asks for a paper towel. Is she talking to a nurse? Oscar? By the way, where is he? I want to know.

She looks at me again and wipes my face as if I were a toddler. She tells me this reminds her of when I was younger—we weren't in school yet, me and Rachel—how I scared her so bad when I fell on my bicycle. I was going fast and rode straight into a curb, then tumbled into a blackberry bush. Rachel came running to her, screaming that I'd had an accident. The first thought my mom had was that I'd gotten hit by a car. She almost threw up right there, all over the flowers she was watering in the yard. She dropped the hose, and together they ran to me, finding my limbs, clothes, and hair tangled in thorns. They had to get a pair of loppers to cut back the vines, and I screamed when they pulled the thorns out. The sight of me terrified her—the red pearls that had grown off the scratches on my arms and legs, the twigs and leaves stuck in my hair, and the patches of what looked like blood smeared all over me. My mom was relieved to find there were fewer scratches than she had thought; it's easy to confuse smashed blackberries with blood.

Mom smiles, saying how thankful she was I wasn't hurt worse. Do I remember? she asks. I say yes, I do. I remember vaguely. I start to say something else, how I remember the falling off my bike but not into the bush, but we're interrupted by a nurse who tells Mom to leave. The doctor says I need to rest now.

After Mom hugs and kisses me good-bye, I stare at the wall, focusing on the small painting of flowers hanging there. Again I feel the desire to shrink, to become a seed and go dormant so that one day, after all the pain has passed, I can grow again.

I don't know how much time passes, but I remember I'm in a hospital. The nurses come in and go out, moving things on each visit. The machines continue to breathe and cough. Through the walls and the cracked door, I can hear my neighbors. Others sick or injured. They also have emotional visitors. I listen for what they say—the doctors, the nurses, the people roaming the hall outside my door—but much of the time, I can't make anything out, so I sleep instead. When I open my eyes again, the room looks different, and I try to place myself. I'm in a hospital, I remind myself. And though this reminder is stale and bitter, at least the sun is shining through the window, coloring the wall ahead of me orange—at least that's nice.

Today my body aches, hurting worse than yesterday. My muscles scream when I flex them to move, so I don't do anything but lie still. A nurse brings me breakfast and offers to help me eat. I say no, thank you, and grab the spoon with my right hand. At least I have some dignity left. My arms are the only working body parts I have.

At some point Claire arrives. I hear her before I see her because she stops to ask a nurse where I am. I watch the door open as Claire enters the room.

"Hi," I say. It's strange how my voice feels loud inside my head, like I'm talking into a megaphone strapped to my ear. "I saved you a seat," I say, pointing to the edge of the bed. "Join the party."

"Oh, sweetie," she says, sitting down. She bites her lip, frowning. Although she doesn't say what she's thinking, it's written all over her face—she's worried, and a part of her, I'm sure, is confused. "How are you doing?"

"Okay, I think." I try to smile. She asks for the injury rundown, so I tell her what I know.

Claire takes my hand and squeezes. "I'm going to do whatever I can to help, okay?" she says, and I try to nod. I keep getting reminded that I'm wearing a neck brace.

Claire goes on, saying she'll go home and pack me an overnight bag. She'll find comfortable clothes, a blanket, my phone charger, and a magazine or something. While telling me this, she pets my hand like it's a small, furry animal.

"If I could undo yesterday," Claire says, "I would. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, Claire." I try to shrug, but realize I can't because of the neck brace. "Accidents happen, and you know what they say—hindsight is 20/20. Stop worrying about it."

She says if I'd come to her house for dinner yesterday, I wouldn't have been driving. I wouldn't have had to cross the intersection at Seventy-Seventh and King. I wouldn't have been T-boned so bad that my spleen is now compromised. My mom told her the car was so smashed they had to break it in half to get me out.

"That's kind of cool," I say, picturing how the Jaws of Life works. In my mind it looks like a forklift hovering over the rubble, its metal-toothed jaw chewing through the top of the car. "I kind of want one of those," I say. "Could come in handy, you know."

"Want what?" she says. I tell her. She explains the tool doesn't work that way. It's a lot smaller than what I'm thinking.

"Really? I still want one. For the next time someone gets into a wreck. Or so I can mess up someone's car."

Claire laughs and looks out the window. We talk for a little while longer before she says she's running home real fast for my stuff. She asks if I want anything from the house, and I think about telling her cigarettes would be great, but since I can't leave the hospital room, smoking probably isn't an option.

While Claire is gone, the nurses check on me again, making sure my meds are okay. One of them gives me a boost in painkillers. When I ask for more, the nurse says no. I have to wait a while. I close my eyes, trying to sleep, because the longer I'm awake, the deeper the aches run. I try to keep my breathing shallow, so as not to aggravate what I understand are fractured ribs.

When I get bored of trying to sleep, I hold my left arm up in front of me, inspecting it. I don't see familiar skin, the skin I know on my arm, but instead see bandages—lots of them—taped together, nestled side by side. I try to undo one, peeling back an edge so I can see what's underneath. I can't take any of it off because the tape is too strong. I stop picking at it when I hear heavy footsteps entering my door.

The man looks at me. "Hello," he says. He fiddles with something on a backlight projector on the near wall. It's the doctor, the one from before. He pulls a piece of black-and-white paper out of a file folder and puts it on the projector. It lights up.

"How are you feeling?" he says.

"I'm okay." I don't know how else to answer.

He nods and puts his hand in his pocket. "We've taken X-rays of your neck, shoulder, and back. It's apparent that there's a break here"—he turns and points to the picture on the wall, and I realize it's my X-ray—"in the cervical spine. As for your knee, we're going to have to operate. You have a patellar tear." He gestures at my knee, outlining the tendon. "That means the kneecap isn't attached anymore."

"Earlier you said something about my spleen?"

"Right," he says. "So far, the signs of internal bleeding aren't enough to warrant surgery, but there's still a good chance we'll have to remove it."

"What?"

"The spleen is an organ many people can live without," he says. "It's generally easier to remove than it is to operate on. It's too delicate."

"But—"

"It's like trying to sew sand together. But don't worry, Ms. Magana," he says, glancing at his watch, "we're monitoring it and won't let you out until we've got a plan."

"What about my neck? There's a fracture somewhere?"

His head rattles, as if he forgot about it and now remembers. "It needs to be immobilized. When you're discharged we'll send you home with a neck brace."

Being the woman in the neck brace means I'll stick out like a sore thumb. And how can I get to work? Will I be able to drive anymore? I can already see that brace getting in the way.

"How long will that last?" I say. "Having to wear the neck brace?"

"I don't know, exactly, but at least eight weeks." He shrugs. "But you'll be at home anyway. Not going to be walking on that leg for a while yet."

I look back at my knee. "I didn't know it was that bad."

"Like I said, we have to amend the tear."

I wish I could look away, but my head is stapled in place. I'm glad when the doctor leaves—I don't want to hear anything else he has to say.

Thinking about everything, I feel my stomach sinking. I try to keep my breathing under control. This was someone else's fault, I remind myself. It was an accident, a set of multiple unrelated circumstances whose trajectories just happened to intersect. It was coincidence. The whole damn thing was a coincidence. Thinking about that should make me feel better, right? That I had no control, that it would've happened regardless of my actions leading up to that intersection. But instead, I want to scream. I want to throw something breakable at the wall. I want to be free.

I'm relieved when Claire comes back later. On the nearby counter she unloads a cup of tomato soup, a mocha, and a duffle bag. She explains that she packed me a change of clothes, a blanket, a deck of cards, and a celebrity magazine. Books are too much of a commitment, she says, because when you're not feeling good, the last thing you want to do is concentrate. She pops off the lid of the cup of soup and hands it to me. I blow on the surface to cool it, then start sipping. I tell her it's the best meal I've ever had.

Claire sits on the edge of my bed, and we play cards for an hour. The nurse comes again and says it's nap time for me, so Claire scoots off the bed and grabs her purse and jacket. Before she leaves, she puts the duffel bag within my reach and then pulls a fleece throw blanket from it. She puts it on my bed, tucking me in. Something about the moment when she drapes the last corner over my bum leg makes me start crying. It makes me laugh when she says, "If you're good, I'll sneak in some whiskey." I thank her profusely. Claire gives me another hug before she says good-bye, telling me she'll be back tomorrow.

Even when Claire's gone, I can't stop crying. I keep sniffling, hiccupping, and my cheeks grow hot. Wiping my hand across my face does nothing but smear tears and snot everywhere, so I pull the fleece blanket to my face. I think of the blanket as a big hankie, but it doesn't even seem large enough to soak up what I'm producing.

I feel tired from crying and need to sleep again. Resting will make me feel better, I realize, but I try to stay awake anyway. When my head starts hurting, I break down and get ready for a nap. I adjust my blanket, making sure my arms are covered, and I smooth the front of my gown. When my hand brushes against one edge of the blanket, I flinch, feeling a prick. I draw my hand back to see a red smudge across my index finger. I curse, pulling back the covers to get a better look. I think it's going to be a snag in the bed frame, or a stowaway pen stuck in the blanket, or something strange, like a shard of glass lodged in hardened gum. But it's none of those things—it's much worse.

In my gut I feel my lunch releasing as I strain to make sense of the picture, of the golf-ball-sized silvery thing sitting on my belly. In the light the red gem burns, casting an orange glare into my eyes.

Did Claire bring it here? If so, I don't know how. She didn't know I still had it or where I left it last. It's supposed to be in a jar, in the dark, under the kitchen sink in my apartment.

I try to fling it away, but my hand misses the mark, brushing over it. I try again, swatting to get rid of the damn thing. The flinching makes my body hurt too much, though, and since I can't move my core much anyway, I finally do what I know I must: I reach for the thing, wrapping my fingers around it. On the backside of my hand the glow pulses, igniting somehow, and instead of throwing the locket off the side of the bed and watching it collide against the wall or break on the floor, I hold it in my hand. It's warm and cool at the same time. It's foreign but familiar, the texture of its surface against my palm. I feel the micro-vibration of the locket unlocking, clicking open, and looking at it, I feel myself shrinking, being sucked into the moment fast approaching when the door opens all the way.

The surge of panic is quelled by a shift in gravity, a transformation completed. Maybe it's my heart stopping, dropping out of my chest like an unnecessary part. Something I've outgrown and can no longer use.

And the sounds of the hospital disappear. The mechanized beeps, the humming ICU equipment, and the conversations between nurses marching the halls outside my door all suspend themselves, contained within snowflakes drifting to the ground. Even the smell of chemical clean and disposable plastic dissipates. I've passed a secret test and am now advancing to the next place.

And he's here too, at the foot of my bed. The big man. The gray man, the one whose eyes can speak.

_Hello,_ I say to him, curiously relaxed. _I remember you._

He makes no reply and doesn't move. He breathes and stares at me, waiting.

_Give me a minute_ , I say _, to figure things out, okay?_

He doesn't answer. He doesn't even flinch, but I know he understands.

I close my eyes. I swallow hard and measure my breaths. My memories of him are hazy, but I know I've seen him before. I've talked to him. I know what he can do, and the fact I only get one chance at this is crucial to keep in mind. I look at him again.

_Is it possible,_ I say, _for you to make me better, to undo all this?_ I gesture to my body to clarify: my neck, ribs, knee, and internal organs. _You can tell me,_ I say.

His eyes travel from my leg to my abdomen, where he spends a moment before appraising my neck. When he meets my gaze again, his eyebrow twitches.

_Really? You can heal me? Okay, okay,_ I say, holding my palm to him. _I just need a second. Hang on._

I lay still, thinking about how to organize my words. The headache that comes on is a distraction, cleaving my thoughts into half here, half in the next room, where my head still hurts. I grab my temples and go over it one more time.

Somehow, I know this. I know how to do it, how to make the wish. Was it Rachel who explained it to me? I think back to what she said, when she told me about this at the river. Or was it another time? Never mind, it doesn't matter. But in some conversation she said I'd only get one opportunity when making a request. He's strict, the gray man, and doesn't perform do-overs. When she told me this, I said, _Come on, really? He's can't be that much of a hard-ass. People give you second chances._

_No,_ she said, _because he's not a regular person._ She looked me square in the face and hovered close enough I could see the slivers of gold in her eyes. That's what made her beautiful, her eyes. She always wore heavy black eyeliner and dark eye shadow, but when she was really stunning was when she wore no eye makeup at all. I was so jealous, wishing I had her eyes. Her hair. Her take-it-or-leave-it attitude, even if it was fake.

I looked up at him then, thinking about it, watching the pieces lock together, fitting. His skin tone for one—people don't look that pale unless they're frozen in a morgue. And he's really tall, taller than anyone I know. Then there are the eyes—that part definitely seems off. Human eyes aren't ever orange.

I clear my throat. I go through the words one more time.

_Okay,_ I say. I take a deep breath before going on. _I wish to be healed, to return to how I was before yesterday, before this happened. That's my wish,_ I say.

I close my eyes and wait, wondering how it'll work. Maybe I'll remember nothing. Maybe I'll go back in time, back to before the accident. I could do that day again, do it over. Or maybe a switch will turn on, and I'll just feel different. Maybe I'll fall asleep, and when I wake up, I'll be whole.

My arm itches at the IV needle, so I rub it gently, careful to not disrupt it too much. However, it gets itchier, and I start scratching. When the irritation gets worse, I hold my arm up, and I see a tiny green flame. It's small enough that I can squash it with my other hand, the way you do when you catch a mosquito drinking from your veins. I slap it with a stiff palm.

But before my hand can smother the flame, it escapes. It prances around, skipping across my skin. I watch it, waiting to strike again, but it makes another flame flare up. Then another. I try to focus on the first one, then on a different one, but I can't catch any of them. They jump around, doubling each moment, and spread.

Again there's a surge, a shift in gravity, a force stretching me in a different direction. The change in pressure squeezes my thoughts. The flames are everywhere—they're on my fingers, on my toes, they are circling my ankles and wrists. They're even in my mouth, sprinting past my throat, and in an instant of clarity, I see Rachel. We're sitting on a boulder with the sun warming our faces, talking about everything. About nothing. About the gray man and the gifts. I devour the words out of her palm like hard candies in bright, crackly wrappers, but they're not real—nothing she told me is real, because she's not real anymore. How could I be so stupid, so naive? She's dead—she's dead because she slit her wrists and bled. I know Rachel was selfish, and she was weak and ornery and confused, but now she's gone. She's nothing more than bones in the ground. A memory stitched through air. And memories can't be trusted wholeheartedly: they can mislead you. Trick you. Like how Rachel deceived me before she died.

Through a tiny hole I squint, searching for my life as it exists in a dimension beyond this one. I catch a glimpse of the real world, the world where Rachel is dead but I'm not. This is a dream, I know. It's just a fantasy, and I'll wake up to find myself in a hospital with a bum leg and a shitty neck brace.

But the flames are getting hotter.

# 11

While I watch myself sinking, unable to stay afloat, I'm surprised. Not by the things I see. Not by the things I feel. Not by the fact that within this mess, I know, there's acceptance, a voice admitting it's true that I'm dying. I'm surprised that I can be aware of all these things but not think about them. Because the only thing I can think about is how much I want to live.

Flames cover my body. I close my eyes, squeezing my lids against each other until my ears hum. I tell myself they're not real, the flames. I tell myself I'm fine, that it's going to be okay. At any moment this'll fade away, and I'll wake up and find myself no different. I need to wait it out, to let it pass. It seems like it gets better. When the pain reverses, when the hot throbs turn into cold waves, I think it's over. But really, it's just started.

While trying to push myself out of bed, I slip and fall onto my pillow. I try again but can't grip anything. My hands are slick, uncooperative. I hold them up to my face. Are these my hands? My hands don't look like this, charred like burnt firewood. These can't be mine, not my hands.

I look for the scar below my left palm where I cut myself once on glass. I was trying to open a jar but wasn't paying attention and pushed too hard, losing my grip. I still don't know how I did it, how I yanked the lid off and cut myself in one fluid motion. It bled like hell, that cut. So much it left a permanent reminder.

Locating the scar is hardly possible. My skin is flaky, rough, like thick bark on an evergreen tree. I touch my hand, feeling for the small divot of the scar. When I find it I press harder. I want to make sure it's where it's supposed to be. But instead of the familiar depression, the rigid texture of scar tissue, my skin cracks. I try to smooth it out, smudging the rift with my finger. It doesn't work, though—it grows, the fracture, weaving across the surface of my skin. In an act I regret, I touch the fissure. I shriek when a chunk of skin and muscle breaks off my hand, dead as cold wax, leaving only bone.

My face is unfamiliar—tight, scaly, a desert under my fingers—and when I start peeling the chalky residue from my cheek, I twinge. It's too late, I realize. I've messed up and can't go back. On my cheek a hole has formed, big enough that air seeps in, chilling my tongue and teeth.

With fear clutching my insides, I look at my hands again. Just as I expected, everything is gone, and bones are all that's left. Amazing how clean they are, those bones, how white they look in the dimming light. Even though I'm maimed, completely scarred for life—I'll never be able to leave the house again—at least the pain is gone. I don't hurt anymore. It's losing what you have that hurts. When there isn't anything else left, well, there's no more hurting.

I look up, gazing into the twilight ahead. In the air I smell balance, a state of rest, a stopping point before activity is renewed. That's when the figure approaches, the one spinning, light in his step.

He draws near and halts, standing in front of me. We look at each other, acknowledging, assessing the other. When his pearly finger bones reach for me, grabbing at my eye, I pull away. He comes again. This time he grabs hold of my temple and hisses, angry and strict. I stare deep into the sockets where his eyes should be, where I know he can see me.

Maybe this is it, this is what finding peace feels like. It's not an ancient treasure. It's not something that can be excavated from a secret tomb, from a place steeped in mystery. Peace is something to be suffered. It is a fist pounding your body to pieces. Finding peace means losing the capacity to resist. And though my eyes are gone, simply bare sockets now, I let myself unfold, pleat by pleat, until I'm stretched out. Until I walk on air.

Everything disappears when you're no longer conscious—there are no colors, no feelings, no memories. There is blankness, but no awareness of that blankness. You're no longer a person but a thing, a resource, something inanimate. River water marches seaward without knowing, without caring where it's going—it's water. And air in monstrous plumes twirls across the earth's surface because it's air.

It isn't until the squawking, until the heavy throbbing of noise forms a cloud that I come to. If it wasn't for that—for the interruption that progresses from waves to chirps to full-blown words—I doubt I'd ever come back. I would have stayed away, roaming, until I was all used up.

The nearby voices climb and drop in pitch. There are several, and some that are too similar to distinguish. Their conversation is charged with commotion, enough that I want to ask what's going on. Judging by the tone of their voices, though, I feel like I should pretend to sleep. I feel like I should hide.

Before I can do anything, a woman notices me looking around. Her eyes flicker like hungry flames, and she gasps. Her voice is shrill. "Dr. Knight," she says over her shoulder, "Dr. Knight? Come back!" The woman sprints toward me. "She's awake now!" she says. "What should I do? Sedate her?"

A man emerges from the blur. His stare pins me down, keeps my head in place. But when he lifts his arm from his side and reaches for my face, I jerk away.

"Whoa," he says, "easy does it. You're still injured, okay?"

He sets something on a countertop. He looks at me again directly. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says. "I just want to make sure you're okay. How are you feeling?"

"I don't know," I say.

"Do you remember what happened last?"

"Um..."

"I'm going to check your eyes, okay?" He leans in. "I have this tool," he says, showing me the tiny flashlight in the palm of his hand. "I'm going to shine it in your eyes. Need to see how your pupils are dilating. Got it?"

I stiffen but hold still while he reaches for my face again. There is such a familiarity to it, to the fingers arching, to the thumb pulling away, that I feel a chill course through me.

"Is it you?" I say. "Are you the gray man?"

The flashlight emits a small click, and the light fades away, allowing color to seep back into view. "No," he says, "I'm Dr. Knight."

When I'm too hot I wake up. My skin is clammy, and I free myself from the covers. I smell terrible. I run my fingers through my knotty, oily hair and scratch my nose. I don't even want to feel my face.

My surroundings confuse me, but then I remember where I am, why I'm here. I touch my throat—the neck brace is gone. The pillow propping up my left leg isn't there anymore. The bandages are gone. My skin looks like my skin. I want to get up and pee, but when I start moving my legs, I find there's a catheter in the way. I wish it wasn't there. I don't want to call any more attention to myself, but after deliberating and toying with the tube, I push the nurse button.

A lady with purple scrubs walks in the door, hurrying. I tell her I feel fine, I want to get up. She isn't sure if that's okay, so the doctor comes and starts asking me questions. Not the kind of questions like _how are you feeling?_ or _did you sleep okay?_ , but questions like _do you have a history of bone disease or mental illness?_ The way the doctor writes things on his clipboard, the tone of his repeated questions, the types of questions that have less to do with my injuries and more about my past, it makes me feel like I'm a suspect. Like a bad guy on a cop show.

The doctor says he and the other staff are confused about several things. Maybe I can help them sort out their confusion. Two days ago there was glass in my skin, burns on my arms, contusions there, there, and there—and yes, internal injuries and a patellar tear and a fracture in my cervical spine. Then some nurse found me thrashing and screaming, and I scratched a CNA. They sedated me because I might've paralyzed myself if I didn't stay still. When I was out they changed my bandages, only to find the lacerations and burns and contusions—all of them—had disappeared. By then Dr. Knight was pulling his hair out, he says, because nothing made sense. What caused my psychotic episode? How could the injuries have healed that fast? Maybe it was the radiologist's fault, or that of the admitting doctor. But how could that many mistakes be made across the board? They went over everything again and did the tests a second and third time, but they didn't find anything.

There's really nothing I can tell them, so they have no other choice other than to discharge me. A nurse takes the catheter out—I have to bite my lip while she does it.

I'm thankful for a shower, for the opportunity to shed all the sweat and grime from the last two days. Standing under hot water for a while makes me feel human again. It also gives me a chance to think, because there's a lot to go over, to process. So much that I can't put my thoughts together without them electrocuting me. My body feels like a stranger, something I shouldn't trust, and I stare at myself in the mirror for a long time afterward. Slowly I unpack the night bag Claire brought. So glad I have clothes—they threw away everything I was wearing when I was admitted.

Someone calls my name from outside the door.

"Mom?" I say. "Is that you? I'll be out in a sec."

She knocks on the bathroom door and says my name again. I tell her to wait, but she opens the door anyway.

"Hey!" I say. "I'm still getting dressed."

"What's going on?" She grabs my face, turning it from side to side, as if expecting to see signs of a flesh-eating bacteria. "You're okay to walk and everything? I don't understand why they're letting you go."

"I'm fine," I say. "They messed up some tests or something at the beginning." I pull a T-shirt over my head.

She grabs my arms and looks at one, then the other. "But they had to sedate you for screaming and...oh, god, it sounded like they were going to commit you."

"I had a nightmare about the accident," I say and pull away so I can flatten my shirt. "I'm okay now, Mom."

"But you had fractures, honey. Those don't heal overnight."

"They redid the tests to make sure I'm okay." I pick up my duffel bag and brush past her in the doorway. "There isn't anything else left to do right now. I've been under observation for twenty-four hours."

Mom goes on, demanding to see the doctor. A different doctor comes, a Dr. Bradeson, who says Dr. Knight has left for the day. He'll be back tomorrow, but Dr. Bradeson affirms that they're authorizing my discharge. My mom listens, her fingers drumming her lips, and nods when he advises her to call if there's a problem. She doesn't move until the doctor excuses himself, disappearing around the corner.

Even though I'm walking fine, Mom asks the same questions over again. How are you feeling? How did they manage to mess up the tests? How many X-rays did they take? She doesn't let me carry my duffel bag and tries to help me into the car. After we get inside and she starts driving, she's silent.

"Thanks for picking me up," I say. "I really appreciate it."

"Of course, sweetie," she says. "I'm just glad that you're okay. When I got that phone call..." She doesn't finish her sentence but doesn't have to. I know what she's thinking.

"Momma." I touch her shoulder. "It's okay. I'm good now. They doctors took really good care of me."

"Except they messed up—big time. What if they had operated on your knee? Your spleen? You could've had serious surgery, and that could've been worse—it could've been malpractice."

"Calm down," I say. "That didn't happen."

She nods and doesn't speak for a while. Her hands grip the steering wheel so tight her knuckles turn white. "It's just, I've gotten that call before, and every day I pray I don't get another one."

My gaze drops onto the glove compartment door. I remember myself, how it was for me when I got that call too. When I picked up my phone, thinking it was a little out of the blue that Max was calling me on a Tuesday in the middle of the day. I said, "Hey, what's up, dude? What's happening?" and I laughed, thinking I was being funny. When he paused at the beginning—when his words, stretching like putty and losing their form, filled the other end—I felt it. I felt the bad thing in his voice, and then he told me. Now whenever my phone rings, I find myself wondering if it'll be another call like that.

"I know, but that car came out of nowhere," I say. "My light was green, I remember it—the driver behind me honked because I didn't go right away." I shudder at the replay. It comes quickly now that my mind is no longer garbled from pain and hospital drugs.

When Mom doesn't respond but instead looks straight ahead, her eyes glued to the road, I begin to worry. What's she thinking? She believes me, right? Maybe she doesn't; maybe she thinks I'm a big liar.

"It wasn't my fault, Mom. I'll prove it. I would never, never..." I say, my sentence crumbling away. The fact my mom thinks I did this on purpose, that I nearly got myself killed because I was stupid—or, worse yet, selfish—burns my insides. A fever spreads, and my cheeks become riverbeds. I look out the window and wipe my face with my sleeve, trying not to bawl.

"And I'm sorry about the other day." My words come out in spurts. I take a deep breath to continue. "I just got so mad, and the anger took over, you know? When it makes you want to scream."

We stop at the light in the left turn lane, and she rests her hands in her lap before turning on the blinker. The ticking noise fills empty space. "I've been there, but I control it," she says.

"Don't you get angry at them? She makes me feel like I'm not good enough, and Max wants nothing to do with me."

"You know, Marina," she says, her voice raspy, "first of all, you seem to forget that Angela got you that job. And second...stop rolling your eyes at me."

"I'm not—"

"Will you shut up for one goddamn second? I'm tired of that mouth, that attitude. Now listen, Max isn't one of the things I worry about for lots of reasons. He supports himself, has a life of his own. And even if he is flaky, so what? Is it worth punishing him? Alienating him?" Her head twitches, emphasizing the question, while she stares out over the steering wheel. "I've already lost one child, I almost lost another, and I don't want to lose the third one."

I look out the window. We pass a cafe where people are eating breakfast, and I see a happy woman, smiling after hugging a friend good-bye. We turn onto my street, where all the units alternate between beige and brown.

"One important part of life, Marina, is getting along with people." When Mom pulls up to the curb, I glance at my front door. She snorts, holding back angry frustration. "Try to do it better."

After I get inside my apartment, I realize I don't want to be there anymore. And I really need a cigarette. I walk outside, ready to go to the store, and it hits me, hard: I don't have a car anymore. I can't just get up and go anywhere like I used to. Getting from place to place, getting groceries, running errands, doing anything is going to take more thought. I'll have to reconfigure my entire life.

I look in my wallet and count twenty-seven dollars. I've got bills coming up, expenses in general. Cell phone. Internet. Credit card. Rent. Electricity. I don't even want to think about hospital bills. What about all the shit in my car? Food? I don't know where to start.

By the time I get back home, I've finished half the bag of chips I bought at the Plaid. Claire's car is sitting in its regular spot on the curb, and I walk inside, hoping I don't catch her off guard too badly—after all, I didn't call or text to let her know I was coming home. She's in the kitchen, huddled over the stove, but isn't alone: Kurt is there too, sitting at the table with a textbook. They both look at me, surprised, and I am immediately uncomfortable. The expression on Claire's face makes me feel guilty for not having given her a heads up.

"You're out so soon?" she says before crossing the living room, coming closer. "What happened?"

"They reviewed the tests," I say, "and decided I was fine." I look at Kurt. "Hi."

He waves and turns away, his attention redirected to his phone. Claire hugs me, then rocks back on her heels to look me over.

"Your knee, you can walk on it? I thought they were going to operate or something."

I shrug. "They changed their minds about almost everything. They kept me under observation for twenty-four hours, then let me go."

Claire nods slowly, her head heavy with news. She scratches the back of her neck and looks over her shoulder at Kurt.

"What are you guys doing?" I say. "Did you have class?"

"It's Saturday," Kurt says without looking up from his phone, "and it's Thanksgiving weekend."

I want to tell him off, to tell him he can shove it in eighty different places. I want to flick cigarette ashes at him. That would be funny, wouldn't it? He'd probably have a heart attack, seeing all that carcinogenic debris on his clothes. But before my mouth cracks open to reply, I remind myself of what my mom said: Be nice. Get along with people—it's important. Before Claire turns to me, I say I'm going out for a smoke and will be back later. I go walking again, and not until it's dark do I return. When I get home, Kurt's gone—thank god. But Claire's still up and wants to hang out.

I find a couple cocoa packets lying around, so I fill two mugs with water to microwave. I mix the cocoa in and give one to Claire as I sit down on the couch. I ask her about Thanksgiving, how dinner went at her house. She says her sister's enrolled in honors classes, and her parents are buying a new car. As if they need a new car—they have two already, Claire says, her eyes rolling. Dinner was good, and the pie was a hit. Then she came home, and on Friday morning she noticed that I hadn't come back but wasn't worried. She figured I stayed the night. It wasn't until she got a call from my mom that she found out what happened, and right after that, she went to the hospital to visit me. When Claire asks about the accident, what I remember, I tell her. And somewhere along the way, I segue into my Thanksgiving disaster.

"It wasn't pretty," I say. "Everyone was yelling, the dog started barking—it was a total shit show. I had to get out of there."

"Have you talked to Max? Has he talked to you? Did he even know—"

"Probably. The hospital called my mom, and she tells him everything, but I don't know—I didn't see him at the hospital. For all I know," I say, throwing up my hands, "he thinks this whole thing was drama on my part."

"Getting into an accident?"

I nod. "I bet he thinks it was on purpose." I've already gone there, thinking about how Max is seeing this. How Max sees me. How our relationship is probably done for. My body grows slack thinking about it.

Claire sighs. "I'm sorry," she says. We sit on the couch, sipping our drinks. I stir mine again, making sure the cocoa stays dissolved in the liquid. It was starting to sink to the bottom, turning into sludge.

"Do you know what's up with your car?" Claire says.

"Probably in a tow yard or something," I say. "I don't know yet. The thing's totaled, though. Has to be."

"If you need a ride somewhere, I can take you."

I smile at Claire. "Thank you. That's really nice—I think I'll take you up on that."

In the weeks that come, I adjust to the world post-accident. First of all, I find out where my car is being held. I call the place and talk to the tow yard manager. He tells me to call the insurance company and get it straightened out, so after half a dozen phone calls with a deep-voiced robot named Minkus Gervaise, I do. He encourages me to rid the car of personal effects before signing the title over to the insurance company. Claire drives me to the tow yard, a place that feels like a mix between a wasteland and the pound, with rows and rows of mangy cars that are lost, unwanted, or abandoned. When we find my car, I barely recognize it—the hood's bent inward and upward, the entire side is crumpled like tinfoil, and the driver-side door has been amputated, now lying on the ground next to the car. And I was inside that thing.

When I reach into the interior, I try to be careful of the broken glass scattered about the seats. I empty the glove box, reach under the seat for my old CDs, and then I go through the trunk and remove things, mainly clothes. I find an old pair of sneakers that I'd forgotten about—the only plus for the day.

I had a good few years with my Civic. There were some great camping trips. The snowstorm the year before last when I almost skidded into another car. Then that time I got a flat tire and didn't know what to do, so I called Oscar and he came to help with the doughnut. I told him he didn't have to, that he could walk me through it on the phone. I was ready to figure it out, to get my hands dirty, because it was silly I didn't know how to do it already. But Oscar wouldn't hear of it. He insisted he come out, even if I was stranded thirty miles down I-5.

I remember getting my car too, right after high school graduation. I can't remember a time I felt more optimistic and hopeful about the future than I did that night. The football field where the ceremony was held had turned gold in the sunset, and the smell of flowers filled the air. It was the verge of summer, and the excitement among the students was contagious. After I shed my cap, I went to find my family in the audience. It was weirdly special because everyone was there, including my dad. It hardly ever happened that he and Oscar and my mom were in the same setting. In fact, that may have been the first time it ever occurred. It was unsettling, but with everyone being so nice, giving me hugs and flowers and envelopes with money inside, I shook it off, happy.

My dad gave me a bear hug. He said congratulations, that I did a good job. He couldn't believe how big I was now. I was practically a grown-up. So grown-up that I couldn't beg for rides anymore. I said, "What do you mean? Dad?" I stepped back, watching his face for clues. He smiled his crooked smile and reached into his pocket. When I heard the clinking sound of car keys, I thought I was imagining it. He wouldn't have gotten a car, not for me. But dangling from his hand was a set of keys held together with a purple flower keychain. I couldn't remember hugging my dad like that since before he and my mom split up.

I was on cloud nine for, like, two seconds, because later that week I found out my dad had also bought a car for Marielle, his new wife's daughter. He got her a brand-new BMW, saying she needed something reliable. At first I thought Rachel was exaggerating—I thought she might be making it up. She was dramatic sometimes, and maybe this was another tactic to make me hate Dad's wife and stepdaughter as much as Rachel did. But when I found the photos online and read the comments, the posts, I went to Max and asked if it was true, if Dad really did get Marielle a new car. Yep, he sure did. Why? Because that's California for you, Max said. He explained that Marielle is attractive and exotic and, because she was dating the son of a Hollywood producer, she was an official somebody—that's what matters down there. Knowing somebody means you're somebody too, and that's what's rewarded. That's why Dad bought her that car.

I look at my car for another minute, but I keep thinking about my dad. When he called last week I let it go to voicemail. He wanted to know if I was okay—Mom told him what happened. Could he help with anything? What did I need? He'd do what he could. It's tempting to call him and ask—I didn't always have a problem with it—but since the funeral, after learning all the things I know now, I haven't had the stomach to talk to him. To listen to his voice.

I want things to be normal again, though sometimes it feels like they'll never get there. I'm so anxious for the insurance check I call Minkus several more times, and I get the check later in the week, which is a relief; otherwise, I would've been late with bills. After a while, public transit becomes less and less intimidating, and I begin to think living without a car isn't so bad. It's doable. My optimism is short-lived, however, because immediately after that happy thought, I get a bill from Legacy Emanuel Hospital—it's huge. More than I thought it would be. And then some other bills come, including the one for the ambulance. The stack of bills and notices keeps growing, so I put everything related to the accident into a shoebox under the coffee table. I'll deal with it later.

Ron and Melinda insist that I only work half days at first, which is sweet but really annoying because I need the money—and to be busy. After a couple weeks Ron finally lets me come in full time. Some days Claire drops me off in the morning on her way to class, and then I only have to take the bus one way. I do errands on my days off, which keeps me occupied when I'm not working. I use my backpack from high school to carry things on the bus, and I don't leave anywhere without it.

One day as I'm leaving for work, I reach into my purse to make sure I have my keys. I don't feel them inside, so I jiggle my purse around, listening for the metallic rattle, but don't hear it. When I pull my purse open to search, I see a familiar shimmer, a rim of silver glinting. I see the dark-red gem.

My insides tighten. I stop breathing, paralyzed.

But Claire's in the car, waiting for me. We're already running late as it is; I don't have time for this. Not at all.

I close my eyes, looking away from the thing I don't want to see, that I don't want to be real, and zip my purse shut. I run out the door.

# 12

Throughout the next several weeks, I ignore the locket. At least it doesn't pop up anywhere new: it stays in my purse, and I don't mess with it. When I do see it, I look away. I don't take it out or hold it; I don't touch it, unless by accident. I just leave it alone and carry on because I have other things to think about.

When mid-December comes, I get ready for a date with Justin. It's been awhile since I've seen him. In fact, I haven't seen him since our double date with Claire and Kurt last month. A lot has happened since then, and the idea of sharing updates and small talk tires me out. The work of conversation doesn't make a date seem worthwhile. Because of that, part of me hoped he'd cancel, that our plans would fall through. I even thought about bailing, but I haven't been able to work up the courage to do so. Could it be that I'm nervous? After all, I like Justin; he's a really nice guy.

I look up the bus schedule for getting downtown on a Friday night then leave the house with enough time to start the trip. I'm glad I wore my snowboarding jacket, because it's cold and might rain later. If there's one thing I've learned to appreciate since taking public transit, it's to be prepared for the weather and walking a lot. Standing in the cold or walking in the rain isn't so much fun when you're only wearing a hoodie.

The next bus to come is packed, but not so much that the driver doesn't let me on. I rush up the steps and flash my transit pass before wading through the people standing, clogging the aisle, holding onto rail bars. I swing my way back until I stop next to an old woman. I try not to stare at her, though it's hard. Her outfit is a mishmash of bright colors, and her musky perfume pollutes the air. It makes my nose sting and my head hurt. To distract myself, I read all the public service announcements above the windows.

The bus slows at each stop to let some people off and others on. Every other stop I have to shuffle backward to make room. When we cross the bridge into downtown, I get off two stops early because, even though it's started to rain, I'd rather be walking outside than suffocating inside, inhaling old-woman perfume.

Outside I feel much calmer, and I pull out a cigarette while walking toward the bar. When I get there, I lean against the wall and light a second smoke. When I hear someone call my name, I look around. It's Justin, and he comes to join me.

"Hey," I say before exhaling quickly. "How's it going?"

He shifts his weight onto one leg and shrugs. "Not bad," he says. "Are you ready for a drink? Because I sure am."

"Hell yes," I say. I put out my cigarette on the brick wall. "Let's go." I smile when Justin opens the door for me, and we go inside.

The bar is large, with two stories, and is very busy. The place is packed and noisy, and it's kind of overwhelming because there's so much going on. Servers dart through the aisles carrying platters of frothy pints and fries. Mounted TVs flicker bits of the NBA game in progress. Beer glasses thunk against tabletops, and all the chatter bounces off the walls. For a while I think of suggesting we go elsewhere, that this place is too crowded and too loud, but then a server approaches us. She leads us to a small table upstairs overlooking the rest of the bar. After we sit down we focus on the menu until the waiter comes to take our orders, but when that's done, Justin and I try to talk loudly enough to hear one another. He tells me about his classes, the pool, his Thanksgiving, and so on. When I get my beer, I gulp it like water.

"Thirsty, huh?" he says. "You're getting a head start."

I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and nod. "I needed that," I say. I watch myself place the beer on the cardboard coaster. "This stuff is really good. You like yours?" I nod toward the glass in his hand.

"It's not bad," he says, "though it's not my favorite." He takes another sip. "I bet my brother would like this."

"Yeah? How's he doing?"

"He's got to travel to Salt Lake City again." Justin's fingers curl against his temple while his elbow rests on the table. "He hates it there. Too hot, and nobody drinks."

"What does he do again?" I say. "Maybe he told me, but I can't remember."

"He's a chemist, works for a pharmaceutical company. I know it sounds exciting, but it's really boring."

"He's a chemist? That's cool." I picture Abe in goggles, wearing a hairnet and gloves and white lab coat, playing mad scientist. "Is that why you're doing pre-med?" I say. "Your whole family is in the medical profession?" I sip my beer.

"Yeah..." He looks up at the TV screen behind me then eats a French fry from the basket sitting between us. "So, what do your parents do?"

I pivot my glass on the coaster, and before I can answer the waiter comes by, asking if I want another drink. I say yes. When that's over, I turn to Justin, remembering where we left off.

"My dad owns a music store. My mom does hair."

"Like in a salon?"

I nod. I tell him how she's good at it, how I think sometimes how it'd be fun to apprentice with her. Running a salon could be neat. "But my mom hates the idea," I say. "She thinks I should get an education, go to college or whatever."

"She's right," he says. "You should."

I sit up, my spine erect and pushing against the back of the chair. "Talking about it and doing it are two different things."

"Your parents can help out." He pauses. "Right?"

I shake my head. He asks why not.

"No money saved for that."

Across the table with pursed lips, Justin rocks his head forward and back several times, a slow, thoughtful nod. "What about student loans?" he says.

"Well," I say, "I can either borrow thousands of dollars to get a degree and hope I'll get a job that makes enough to pay it back." I look down at the table, fiddling with the cardboard coaster for my beer. It's warped slightly from condensation dripping off my glass. "Or I can skip all that. I'll end up in the same place."

"But getting an education opens doors," he says. "That's really important."

I look away, down at the activity below us. There are three TVs in sight, all huge. "And so is paying rent and bills and all the shit you have to think about when no one else is paying it for you."

Justin doesn't respond, and it's silent for a moment. He gets up to go to the restroom, and I chug the rest of my beer. I grab a French fry and tear it in half, inspecting the steam and white mush inside. When he returns, we agree to close out and leave for the next place.

Our next stop is a small concert venue called The Barbury. Justin says a friend's band is playing here tonight, and we're just in time: they're starting soon. At the entry we're carded by the doormen before they allow us to pass. We walk through the throngs of people standing in the lobby. At the back end of the dance floor, there's a small stage lit with red and blue lights.

"There." Justin points to one of the men ahead, on the platform. "I was hoping we'd get to see him play. That's my friend Glenn, the one in the black shirt."

The Glenn guy tunes a guitar while another guy fiddles with sound equipment. They look at each other, obviously figuring out something technical, because Glenn pulls one cord out of his instrument and plugs in a different one.

Justin says something, but I can't hear. "What?" I say, shouting.

He asks if I want something to drink. I say yes. We weave through people toward the bar and order beer. When I put down cash, Justin pushes my hand back. I tell him it's okay, I insist. He shakes his head, so I claw back my money, mouthing the words, "Thank you." After we get our drinks, we find a small standing table. The music starts up, and I can't help but stare at the guy in the black shirt. His voice is incredible. It's like a wavy sunbeam.

After three songs the guys in the band take a break and step off the stage. Justin beckons me to follow, offering his hand to guide me through the crowd. We get to the bar, where Justin introduces me to Glenn, his long-time friend, and we shake hands. It's really noisy with all the commotion in near the bar, and though conversation is possible, I know my voice will be raspy tomorrow.

"The cover you did was great," I say, shouting. "It was nice, doing it in a different key."

"I wanted to play with it," Glenn says. He raises a glass to his lips, gulping beer. He chugs half of it before setting the glass down on the bar. Glenn turns to Justin, saying something—I don't know what—and Justin laughs. They keep talking while I sip my drink and look around. Lots of people are clustering nearby, shoulders brushing other shoulders. Then Glenn points to the back corner of the bar, and Justin nods before slipping away, walking into the crowd. Glenn turns to me again. "Do you play?"

"Sometimes." I shift my weight from one leg to the other. "Actually, I'm rusty as hell. At Thanksgiving I played with my brother, but I had to give up." I look at my fingertips, flicking my thumbnail under my middle finger. "It was terrible how sore I got."

"Woman," he says, "you've got to practice." He grabs my wrist and turns my hand palm up. "There aren't any calluses, not here. And these nails are way too long."

I laugh, and when I feel Justin's hand on my shoulder, I pull my hand away from Glenn's.

"What did I miss?" Justin says.

"This girl needs to practice her skills, man." Glenn laughs.

Justin turns to me. "I didn't know you played anything."

I look away, across the room, above the heads of the crowd. "It didn't come up until now," I say. "Besides, I don't play. Not really." I look into my purse and find my phone inside. I take it out to check messages.

The bartender shouts at Glenn and pushes three full shot glasses toward us. Glenn turns to me, but his brow furrows. "Where's Justin?" he says. "I bought the man a shot."

I look around and don't see him. "He left again? Where did he go this time?" I say.

"Well, I guess you get his tequila shot." Glenn pushes both glasses toward me. "Ready?"

On the count of three, we throw back our shots. The liquor burns going down, but the second shot goes smoother. I grab the lime wedge and bite, squeezing it for juice.

"Hell yeah," I say, quivering from the heat in my stomach. "I forgot how much I like tequila." I bite the second lime wedge, tearing out all the flesh. "Thanks for that."

He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a lighter. "I need a smoke."

I nod, saying I do too, and follow him outside, pushing through throngs of people between the bar and the front door. Outside, it's cold and drizzly, but not so bad that it's miserable. We see other people smoking nearby and walk up to them. We all say hello and introduce ourselves. I fish around in my purse for my cigarettes.

"Damn," Glenn says, "that sucks."

I look up at him. "What's wrong?"

"I'm out." He tips a pack of cigarettes upside down, proving it's empty.

"Need to bum a one?" I say. "I've got two left. Then we'll be in the same boat." I hold one out for him, and he takes it. He says thanks.

"Are these Marls?"

I nod. "Not your favorite? What do you usually get?"

"American Spirits, man. Best ones."

"That was my sister's product of choice," I say. I open my mouth to say that American Spirits are overrated, but I stop. I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around and see Justin's face hanging above mine.

"There you are," I say. I hug his arm. "Where did you disappear to? I had to finish your drink!"

"What's going on out here?" he says, looking around. I explain that it's a smoke break. Glenn says something about going back onstage soon.

"Won't smoking make that harder?" Justin says. Glenn answers, saying no, not really. He does it all the time. It's fine. He drops the butt on the ground and smashes it with his foot, twisting a few times. He looks up at Justin and holds out his hand.

"Thanks for coming out, brother," Glenn says, shaking Justin's hand, patting him on the back. Then Glenn turns to me. "And thank you, ma'am, for the cig."

"Sure," I say. "Nice meeting you."

When Glenn goes back inside, Justin and I don't follow but linger outside. I lean against the wall.

"How's it going?" I say.

Justin shrugs, looking at something above my head. I ask if he's feeling okay. He says he wants to go, so we start walking to his car. On the way he asks if I had a fun. I say of course, I want to do it again sometime. Seeing his friend perform was nice.

"Glenn seems to like you," he says.

"It was fun watching him play, talking with him." I cross my arms tighter against my chest to feel warmer. "How do you know him again?"

"We've known each other since grade school. Used to be in Scouts together."

I nudge my elbow against his arm, shoving him a little. "Get out. You were a _Boy Scout_? Ha!"

"Yes, indeed." He sighs. "But not for long. I quit after three years."

"Oh?"

"It was boring, took all my free time." He hunches his shoulders forward, pulling his chin down behind the collar of his jacket. "If I did one more year, I would've killed myself."

At first, I don't think anything, but I do slow down. I take note of how wide the sidewalk is, how large it feels while I'm walking on it. I try to brush it off, the comment about killing himself. It's just a figure of speech—of course I know that. People say that all the time, but they don't mean it.

We walk for a bit in silence, and I try to focus on something else. I can't, though, and I feel myself losing it. I can't keep the sounds from fading away. I can't stop the images of razor blades, pistols, and nooses from flooding in, filling me up. They come so fast that I can't toss them aside or ignore them. I breathe in quickly, hoping to calm myself, but it doesn't work: I feel worse, and I stop. Justin continues a few paces before stopping himself. He turns around and looks at me. The glow of the nearby streetlamp makes him look pale.

"What?" he says. "Is something wrong?"

My throat inflates, turning into a big balloon that I have to squish with my chin. I want to shrink. I want to become invisible. I want to fly away.

"Marina? Hey." Justin walks toward me, concerned. He reaches for me, puts a hand on my shoulder. I jerk away.

"Whoa," he says.

"Whoa what?"

"What happened? Are you going to be sick? Because we can go over there," he says, pointing to a nearby dumpster, "if you need to puke."

I pull my arms tighter around my ribs, holding my chest together. It could fall apart at any moment. It could crumble into a dead mess on the ground. I don't want to know what that looks like.

"Hey, come on," he says. "We'll just walk over here—"

"Fuck you," I say.

Justin cocks his head, startled. I can feel his eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

He steps back, increasing the distance between us. "What the hell's wrong with you? I don't get it. "

"Of course you don't." I don't know what else to do. I get angry, and he gets angry and says something about me being confusing, but he wants to drive me home anyway. I turn around and march off, listening to my own hurried footsteps. My pointed footsteps. He says something, but with my back to him and my speed picking up, his words break apart and wash away. Not long later, it's just me and my breath making clouds in the night air.

I get back to Burnside Street and look for a bus shelter for the eastbound twenty-two. Underneath the awning it smells like urine, so I stand several feet away. While waiting for the bus, I decide to have a smoke, but when I reach into my purse, I find I'm out of cigarettes. All of a sudden I remember giving the last one to Glenn. That's right, Glenn—now he's a person who doesn't judge me, someone who doesn't make me feel self-conscious. I need more people like that around.

Where's Glenn now? At the club? Maybe he's nearby, and I could find him. If I did run into him, maybe he'd want to keep talking, picking up where we left off. Maybe he'd buy me another drink. Maybe we'd go back to his place to hang out—maybe we'd do more than that.

I look up the street, back from the way I came, considering the idea. If I did find him, would it turn out the way I hope? And what is that, exactly? A one-night stand with a guy I just met? That's not going to improve my life. If anything, it'll make me feel worse. If Justin ever found out, he'd certainly think I was a terrible person—if he doesn't already.

Have I messed up things with Justin for good? Replaying the conversations, I highlight what went wrong, probably from my end. There was our talk about college, about being a doctor. Then about music, playing instruments. And the whole thing about smoking—Justin didn't ever say anything, but I could tell he didn't approve of it. My smoking made him uncomfortable, like it does lots of people. Why is that something anyone cares about, anyway? Can't they keep their opinions to themselves? After all, I don't try to make others feel bad about their choices, about things they do. Maybe that's something I should wish for: an end to the guilt-tripping. Maybe the gray man could do something about that.

Thoughts of all kinds keep revolving through my head while I stand outside the bus shelter. I think about how I could've done things differently tonight. How I could've done things differently at Thanksgiving. How I could do things differently all the time, if I tried. The conversation with my mom after she drove me home from the hospital creeps back into my mind. In my head I picture her face, how the irritation showed through while she was lecturing me about behavior. Her eyes narrowed, becoming sharp and unforgiving. Her words still ring in my ears.

If I'd just tried harder with Justin, maybe I wouldn't be here, waiting for the bus in the cold.

When I'm at work the next day I feel anxious, unsettled. I keep looking at the clock. I go in circles, feeling ready for my shift to end only to ask myself why I care. After all, I have nothing to look forward to. Ron asks if I'm not feeling well. I say no, I'm fine. He teases me about being up, about partying. He runs through his list of hangover remedies, including tested-and-approved breakfasts. Back in his party days, he says, he'd do eggs and bacon, or sometimes mushroom omelets. Sometimes he and his buddies would make breakfast drinks. Get some vodka—it's got to be good vodka, none of that cheap stuff—and mix it with grapefruit juice. Now there's a good hangover drink. Better than black coffee. Because I can't help it, I smile and laugh. I tell him I generally feel like toast—he says that's a good one. Go for toast.

When I get home I look in the fridge. Claire set aside some of her leftover spaghetti for me. I think about warming it up, but since I haven't eaten all day, it would hurt my stomach. If I eat anything like that now, I'll throw up for sure. Instead of looking for something else to eat, I shut the fridge and go outside for a smoke. I keep smoking until my lungs hurt, and then I stop and go back inside.

In the living room I find my computer and camp out on the couch, pulling a blanket over my legs and turning on the TV. I flip through the channels, settle on a cop show, and turn back to my computer. It doesn't take me long to turn it off—I see Justin's posts and Max's posts and even something new on Rachel's page.

I shut my eyes to rest but can't fall asleep. It doesn't matter how tired I am—sleep is impossible right now with everything humming—so I get up for a drink. When I fill a cup under the faucet, I look at the knife block on the counter. Claire's parents got her that knife set when we moved in together. It's not the greatest set, but it's good enough for two girls in an apartment. You can cut what you need to cut, more or less.

I pick up the medium knife, the one we never use. We use it the least because all the others are better suited for most things. The fat one is good for vegetables and cheese, the jagged one for bread, and the little ones work best for slicing fruit. The medium knife is too slender or too big for anything.

I press the point of the knife onto my palm, twisting it slightly. I push more, watching the skin dent under its impact. My palm keeps stretching, yielding under the pressure. It gets to the point of being uncomfortable, but it hasn't broken any skin yet.

My eyes narrow. I want to know how it feels, what it's like. I focus on pushing through the discomfort, through the desire to resist pain. It's not easy, because the harder I push, the weaker my determination becomes. I forget about going forward because the discomfort is too much to block out. Rachel did it, though. She pushed through the pain. She committed herself to it entirely.

All of a sudden the pain is too great, and I stop. I look at my hand and see where the skin is indented, impacted by the knife's tip. There's no cut, though. No blood. There's no need for a bandage. I put the knife back and wonder how much pain Rachel felt when she was doing it. Did she slow down, feeling scared, feeling regretful, before charging ahead? Or did she do it so fast that there wasn't any time to think? Both possibilities make me feel worse, make me feel like I failed. I can't even get this right—whatever it is.

I go outside for a smoke. I don't feel like another cigarette but don't know what else to do. With each breath I pretend the smoke is filling my insides, reaching into nooks and crannies that are empty, that have been sucked dry. The smoke can make me whole again, maybe. Make me feel better, though I know it won't.

# 13

I wake up suddenly, my eyes opening wide and my throat clenching. My heart is pounding. My skin is slippery all over, like I've been spray-coated with my own sweat. My T-shirt is damp and cold against my skin. Parts of my dream—what must've been my dream, the reason I'm waking this way—start to drop away like clumps of wet sand, their forms too weak to hold shape. Some things are similar, though—like people. Like places and scenarios. Like it's a dream I've had before, one where the characters are the same. The feelings are the same, but other things? They're different, altered. Sometimes the gray man is there, or at least I think he is, because upon waking I think about him. About the encounter in the hospital, how grateful I am for my recovery. About the fact I have two more favors remaining. About his eyes, and how they make me shiver. About the power he has to change my life, and all I have to do is say the words.

I don't know what to do.

When I get to work, I find not Ron in the store but Melinda. She's sitting in the office, chewing her nails while staring at the computer.

"Good morning," I say.

"Hey there, Marina," she says, looking up from the monitor. She asks me how I am, and I say all right. I put my stuff away and ask her if there's anything I should start on.

"T-shirts," she says. "Those are always in need of attention."

I say okay and get the folding table and board. I get to work on the shirts. Ron usually has me work on the same thing—he's the one who's generally here in the morning. Melinda doesn't come in until later in the day, and lots of the time, I don't end up talking to her much when she's in, if at all. Not only because she runs around the store a lot more than Ron—he mostly sticks to the back and the office and checks in on me—but Melinda isn't as chatty. Not that she isn't nice, she's just more focused on the task at hand, wanting to get things done. In fact, I can't remember the last time we had a conversation longer than three sentences.

It starts raining. The raindrops are fat and noisy as they hit the rooftop. The puddles in the street turn rough, like broken glass. It's slow after we open, so Melinda has me work on helping her restock some of the gadget wall. I want to ask her if Ron's sick or something but decide against it; I don't want to be nosey or rude, making her think I'd rather be working with him than her.

While we slice open cardboard boxes and tear open plastic wrap, I forget about everything except the lyrics of the song playing in the speakers. Melinda set it to a different station, one where all they play are sappy breakup songs—I like Ron's music better.

"Marina," Melinda says when we open another box of greeting cards and stationary items. I glance over at her, wondering what this'll be about, because she has a different tone in her voice.

"I don't know a lot about what's going on for you and your family," she says, sighing a little, "but I wanted to let you know that I've been through that before."

"What do you mean?"

"Suicide. My mother took her own life, you know. Twenty-six years ago." Melinda doesn't stop moving, picking up individually packaged greeting cards and sliding them into the card shelf.

It takes a moment to gather my thoughts, to figure out what words to use. "I'm sorry," I say. "Sorry that that happened. And for your loss."

Melinda nods, acknowledging me. "It's not easy, going through that. It's something a lot of people won't ever understand."

"Yeah." I keep moving, trying not to stop what I'm doing, either. I pick up each package of notepads with snarky sayings on the top. One is a mock prescription pad. Another says _Bitch, please_. They're different colors, the paper, and I take my time unwrapping the packages and ordering them on the shelf. Being on this side of the conversation is weirdly new, given that I've been on the other end of it recently.

I try to figure out what to say next. There are so many questions I want to ask, so many things I don't know how to express in the right way. But Melinda keeps talking, her voice calm and steady. Like it's just a fact of her life.

Her mom had always struggled with depression. It came in cycles, the lulls in which her mom struggled to rise from bed or put on a real smile. Melinda could always tell when her mom was about to descend into the cycle: if it was going to happen, it'd happen in the winter. Her mom would wear the same clothes over and over again. She wouldn't call as often and wouldn't answer the phone. She'd laugh in a particular way. Those were the precursors—little things like that.

During that winter—it was right after New Year's, the one before Melinda's thirtieth birthday—she'd gotten a call from her uncle. She thought it was weird: her uncle never called. He hardly ever talked to her at all. So why was he calling? So she picked up the phone, curious. He told her to come over, and she refused. She wasn't going to leave work with no reason. But more than that, she could feel that there was something going on, something big. "'Tell me why' is what I said to him. This weird feeling was building up in me," Melinda says, explaining the conversation. "And suddenly, I snapped. I told him I wouldn't come over unless he explained exactly what had happened."

"What did he do?" I say.

"He told me exactly what had happened...and then I felt the world giving way." Melinda pauses, squinting at the ceiling. "I felt the floor disappear beneath me."

Melinda goes on to explain how she and her uncle and father had to make funeral arrangements. That was a learning process and, she said, maybe the longest week of her life. I remember that: it was the longest week for me too. It felt like months went by, each day a new journey.

The front door opens, and an older lady enters the store. We greet her and ask if she needs help finding anything. The woman chuckles and says she wants to know more about the jewelry collection, whether or not we have any silver earrings that are hammered by hand. I have no idea, but that's okay because Melinda knows about each and every item in her store. She motions the woman to the counter and starts pulling things out to show her.

While I listen to their conversation, noticing Melinda's subtle change in tone from serious to slick saleswoman, I think about her story. I think about her mom, about the ugly roughness that woman must've endured. I think about Melinda's experience, how it mirrored what I felt. That plunge into unknown horror. It's a nightmare that you don't wake up from.

I pick up the empty boxes and ripped-up plastic packaging. I find the box cutters lying on the floor and bring everything back to the stockroom. While using the cutters to break down the boxes, I wonder if the blade slices the same way through skin as it does through packaging tape or cardboard—probably not. It's too dull. After I flatten the boxes, I go outside and throw them in the dumpster. I jog back inside because the rain is heavy again, great fat drops splattering on my head.

When I get back inside, the customer is gone. Melinda says she bought a necklace and earring set. It was nice to sell them together; they were such a beautiful pair.

Melinda goes into the office, and I stay out front. I organize the magnets on the shelf, ordering them so all the like ones are together. Then I line up the candles, rearranging which ones are side by side. Later, I walk to the office and find Melinda biting her nails again.

"How's it going out there?" she says. I tell her good, and she nods.

"Melinda?" I say.

"Yeah?"

"When you said your mom died—that she died that way too—what did you do?" I shake my head, feeling stupid. I try my question again. "I mean...did it ever get better?"

Melinda leans back in her chair, disengaging from the computer, and swivels to face me. With her thick red dreadlocks pulled away from her face into a hive-like bun, she looks like a powerful Bohemian woman. She's magnetic. "It was hard for a long time," she says. "They say things take a year, but it takes longer than that."

"How long?"

"Well, it depends. To feel normal again, it takes a year at least. But to not be sad anymore? To stop feeling vulnerable about everything?" Melinda shrugs. "A few years. It gets better, in part because you can't sustain feeling sad about it so much. The other part is, you have to go on with your life, since that person becomes less and less part of it."

I grab my elbow and lean on the doorframe. My head moves, nodding.

"You want to know something that helped me move on?" Melinda says, her voice changing pitch. "I threw myself into learning how to run a business. That and hiking. I hiked all the time. It was good, doing something for myself."

I don't mean to, but I look up at her. Our eyes meet. I smile briefly before my gaze falls to the floor and my shoulders hunch forward.

"You need to take it a day at a time," Melinda says, "but you also need to look ahead. Make yourself do something worthwhile. It could be a hobby, work, school—whatever. But do something..."

While she talks I stare at a spot on the floor, a discoloration in the linoleum tile. When there's a pause, when she has finished, I tell Melinda okay. I tell her thank you, and she says, "You bet."

Over the next several days, I keep working, going through each day while I think about what Melinda said. Our conversation didn't last long, but it keeps echoing in my head. At least some parts, anyway. Some of them make me feel bad, but others, something else. I don't know what it is, but I wouldn't say better. Hopeful, maybe.

Like every other day this week, I come home and find Claire gone. School's busy, she'd said earlier. Preparing for finals and end-of-term projects. At least she texts me so I know what to expect: it's nice knowing if I'm going to have company or be a loner all night.

There aren't any leftovers in the fridge. Just bottles of sauce. After a smoke I look in the pantry for something to eat. I find a box of spaghetti that hasn't been opened yet, so I get a pot of water going. When it's boiling, I add some salt and the pasta, folding it in as it softens in the water. When it's done and I've drained it, I dish up a bowl and add some oil, salt, and pepper. The Parmesan canister is almost empty, but I shake free the last remaining bit from the bottom. I turn on the TV and sit on the couch while I eat.

I grab my phone, thinking I should text Justin. I want to fix what happened. I want to make it better, or at least try. It probably won't do any good, though, so I put my phone down and look back at the TV, trying to focus on the show. Then I change the channel a few times. An hour goes by, and I still can't stop thinking about Justin, so I pick up my phone and text him.

_Hey,_ I say. The cursor flashes, waiting for me to keep going. To move forward. I type something, then delete it, then type something else that doesn't sound good either. It's hard to find the right words because I don't know what I want to tell him or where to start. I take a smoke break to clear my head, then come back.

In my text I write, _I'm sorry for the other night. I was a bitch._ I reread the message, wondering if it's what I should say, if it's fair. The more I think about it, the more true it becomes: I wasn't very nice and feel bad about it.

I press SEND and wait. Then I say, _Life sucks right now, and I didn't mean to be like that._ I wait, looking back at the TV, and my blood goes to my cheeks. _Want to get a drink sometime?_ I say before pressing SEND again. I stare at my phone, waiting for an answer. After a few minutes pass, I look back at the TV and flip through channels.

Justin doesn't write back, and I don't send any more texts. He doesn't respond the next day either, and I feel stupid for several reasons. At first I feel stupid for texting him, for asking to meet up again. Then I feel stupid for snapping at him in the first place. I feel stupid for not being able to tell him I had a sister, for wanting to keep it a secret. And I feel stupid for worrying so much—I messed up but tried to make amends. Should I feel dumb about that? I don't think so, but I still do. At least I tried to fix it, I remind myself. And I can live with that.

On my next day off, I don't know what to do. I think about going Christmas shopping—I know I'll have to do that at some point—but in the morning I have a hard time getting off the couch. My sweatpants are too comfortable, and putting a bra on feels like a lot of work.

With the TV as background noise, I get my laptop out and browse the web. I do my errands—checking my bank account balance, my messages, the posts everyone else makes here and there. Since it's a weekday, a daytime soap opera comes on. I start watching it, wondering how long it'll be before I get bored, but then I watch the whole thing and wonder how that happened.

Then the talk shows come on. It doesn't matter what channel it is—there are talk shows everywhere. I settle for the least obnoxious one. It's some makeover kind of episode where they have frumpy stay-at-home moms or dweeby guys come on the show and get some professional help. One lady's before-and-after is so dramatic that you wonder if it's really the same person. They lopped off a ton of her hair, dyed it, and gave her highlights.

Seeing the woman's change, how happy she is, almost makes me cry. _This is a talk show_ , I remind myself. It's not like the woman got cured from cancer or was saved from a burning building; they just gave her a makeover, that's all. Nothing magical. It's only different cosmetics, clothes, and a new hairstyle. But even though it's that simple, getting your haircut can make a huge difference on your mood. My mom says so, anyway. "If you're hair's having a good day, then you're going to have a good day too," she used to say. It's kind of true, I guess.

Thinking about that, I look online at haircuts. Maybe I should get one. My ends are kind of bad anyway and could use a trim. Normally, I'd just call my mom when I want my hair cut and she'd do it for free. Right now, though, I don't want to talk to her or go over there. It just doesn't feel right yet, given the recent Thanksgiving drama and the fact that Christmas is coming soon.

I can't spend a lot of money, so I look online for cheaper beauty parlors. Most of the ones I find nearby are discount chain salons, which I'm not wild about. Mom will notice if I get a $10 haircut, and then we'll have to talk about it.

Through my search I come across the beauty schools in town. Student haircuts are cheap, and an instructor double-checks the job before you pay. Not as good as a professional, but not bad either. I look at their hours, and since they're open, I throw on some clothes and go.

At the Sierra School of Beauty and Hair Design, it's busier than I expected. The place is larger than a normal salon, with at least two dozen cutting stations, several nail stations, and doors to back rooms where I imagine they do waxing and facials. There must be nearly a hundred people here, students and instructors and customers.

Luckily, they have room for walk-ins, and I get hooked up with a student immediately—a girl named Naomi. While she's working on my hair, I learn she's a second-year student, and after twenty more client-contact hours, she'll be able to graduate.

"Once I get my license," she says, "I'll already have a chair lined up." Naomi explains that a friend of a friend offered her a job working in her salon. I ask what she'll be doing. "Everything, probably," she says. "I decided to get trained to do hair, nails, waxing, and skincare. You never know what'll get you work, the way I see it."

"Do you like it here?" I say. "Taking classes?"

"Oh yeah. It's great." She pauses and looks at me, making eye contact through our reflections in the mirror. "Why, you looking for a beauty school?"

"Uh...I don't know. Maybe," I say. "I haven't thought about it a lot." I explain that my mom's a hair stylist, and I've thought about doing hair too, but don't know yet. I don't know anything.

Naomi finishes trimming my ends and gets the okay from an instructor who combs through my hair, making sure the lengths are even. When I go out to the counter to pay, I ask the receptionist about enrollment. Before I can tell her I just want a brochure or something, she waves at someone across the room. The woman, the receptionist explains, is Madam Dee, the head of enrollment. I nod and introduce myself, and soon Madam Dee and I are in her office, talking about the program, costs, and licensure.

Madam Dee says I can think about it as she hands me a folder with worksheets, a school calendar, financial aid information, and program details. Enrollment for the spring term closes soon, at the end of the month.

"Do I have to know now what services I'd want to do?" I say.

"No, not to apply." She explains I'll have to submit an application and pay a $30 fee to enroll, but that's it, in terms of getting started.

"Okay," I say, "I'll fill out the application here if that's alright, and will go ahead and enroll too."

When I get to the bus stop, I stare into the street, letting my eyes focus on nothing. Part of me can't believe how my day turned out. This morning I was sitting on my ass, having no thoughts about the future, and now I'm enrolled in beauty school for the spring term. It's hard to wrap my head around how fast that happened.

I wonder what Mom will think of all this, if she'll be upset. It's not that she'll be mad that I filled out an application and threw down thirty bucks, or that I didn't mull over this decision for more than a minute. What I'm curious about is if she'll be upset that I'm going to beauty school, that I'm following her footsteps. The last time this came up—when Rachel pitched our idea to her—she was flustered. She wanted her kids to get an education, not to get trained for a job. She wanted the best for us, she said, and learning her trade wouldn't be her first choice and shouldn't be ours, either. Even though I feel good about enrolling, I don't want to be a disappointment to her—not more than I already am, anyway.

A block away, the boxy face of the bus approaches, rumbling along the curb. The grunts and screeching brakes echoing closer seem to shrink, to fade away, as I ask myself if I'm doing the right thing.

The bus door opens, and when I glance at the black step, its center ridges made dusty by thousands of shoes marching across it every day, I realize the only way to get anywhere is to get in line, to step up, and to go forward.

# 14

When Claire and I run out of bread, coffee, and pasta later in the week, I bring my backpack to work so I can stop by the store afterward. Although it's easier to go shopping together—mostly because she's the one with the car now—I volunteer to get groceries on my own. When I hear Claire talk about being stressed out with work and school—finals are coming up—I tell her not to worry about it, I can manage, and she gives me a shopping list.

By the time I clock off work, it's already dark outside, and it feels later than it actually is. Walking to the bus stop is pleasant because the streets are busy, bustling with cars and lit up by all of the streetlamps, shop fronts, and Christmas lights. When the next bus comes, I hop on and get off at a stop near the grocery store. Walking inside, I realize it's not only rush hour outside but inside too: I see people with shopping carts everywhere, multiple baby strollers, and packs of tweens. The checkout lines are long, even for the self-checkout. I promise myself to make my shopping quick, so I grab a basket and search for what I need to get.

I'm glad I find everything on Claire's list easily. Although my shopping basket is heavy, everything will fit and be okay in my backpack. I make a beeline for the check stand, but when I get there, I stop. There's someone in line that I know, and I don't know what to do. Should I talk to her? Should I hide? Because the woman I see standing in line is exactly who I think it is: I'd recognize that bushel of choppy black hair anywhere.

For a moment I think about saying hi to Maya, to see how she's doing. I wouldn't mind talking to her, because she was the friend of Rachel's that I liked the best. Maya was always nice to me, and she seemed to be a good friend to Rachel too. They worked together at the same bar, which is how they knew each other. Whenever I came by the bar and Maya was working, she'd mix my drinks extra strong and call me "pretty woman." Sometimes she'd give me a dish of peanuts on the house, and when it was slow, we'd chat while she sliced lemons and I sat at the bar, drinking. When Maya had her holiday parties, which were big events, kind of over-the-top but certainly well done, she always invited me. Rachel and I had a good time when we went—usually too good a time.

I almost go to her, but when I envision our conversation, picturing how it will go, I stay put, hanging back until Maya is gone. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head and pretend to look at shampoo on an endcap. When Maya leaves I get in line at the checkout stand, then I ask for a pack of Marls and pay. Part of me still feels like it isn't over yet, that I'm not in the clear. I could run into her anywhere between here and the entrance. She could be hanging out by the doors, talking to someone. She could be having a smoke in the parking lot. I tug on my hood again, pulling it forward to protect my face. I'm thankful that I don't see her when I leave.

At work the next day, it's busy because this weekend is Christmas. Ron and Melinda say they'll pay me overtime to work from open to close each day of the week. I don't have to if I've got plans or need to prepare for the weekend. I say no, it's all right: I've got everything figured out and planned. The truth is, though, I don't.

On my lunch break my phone vibrates, so I check it. The message is from Claire.

_Want to come Xmas shopping with me on Thursday or Friday?_

I think for a second before writing back. _Maybe. It depends._

_When can you come?_

I tell her I get off at eight each night. She waits to respond. Then she says that'll be fine, she'll pick me up from work on Thursday. Part of me doesn't want to go, to deal with buying gifts and thinking about my family, but I know I can't escape it any longer.

And strangely, as if she heard me telepathically, my mom calls an hour later. I listen to her voicemail, but wait until I get home before calling back.

"Hey, Momma," I say when she picks up. "It's me."

"Hi, sweetie. How you doing? Is work going good? I know you're really busy," she says, "but I haven't heard from you in a while."

I finish my drag and exhale as discreetly as I can, though I doubt Mom can tell I'm smoking. She asks a lot of little questions, wanting to know about my job, about how I'm feeling. Did I get my car figured out? I say fine and yep and uh-huh. When we're done with that, I figure we should get to the point.

"You called and left me a message about Christmas and the beach house," I say. "It's available or something?"

"Yeah," she says, stretching out the word. She explains that Oscar's friend Gene, the guy who owns the house, is visiting his daughter in Nevada this year, so the beach house is open that entire week. "He's letting us have it, if we want," Mom says. "Oscar and I are thinking of going for the weekend, but want to make it work with your schedule."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Christmas Eve through the day after," she says. "We'll pick you up on Friday and come home Sunday, drop you off then."

"I guess that could be fine." I take another quiet drag. "Who all's going? What about Max and Angela?" I say.

"They're out of town right now, so it'd just be you, me, and Oscar...oh, and Cece—"

"What is Max doing this year instead?" I say. I flick the cigarette ashes into a tin can I keep on the stoop.

"Angela's family has a place in BC, a vacation home or something on the mountain. They're there now through the twenty-eighth."

I'm not sure what she says next, because I focus on biting my tongue. Mom and I have had too many arguments about my brother, and I know neither of us have the energy for another one. Not now.

"I've got to check my schedule, Mom." I hold the phone away from my mouth when I suck another drag in. "I'll get back to you about the beach."

"If you can't, then we'll just do something else—"

"I've got to go. I'm catching the bus," I say, lying. "I'll call you later." I hang up without waiting for her to say good-bye and put the phone down. I finish my cigarette and start another, and even though the phone call is over, it feels like it isn't.

I remember the first Christmas without my dad. Mom took us out for Chinese food, then to a coffee shop, and then we saw a movie. Before that, I never knew it was possible to go to a restaurant or a movie theater on Christmas Day. I had always thought things were closed on Christmas, so everything we did that day was extra special. A real treat. Mom did good that year: she'd managed to pack our holiday with enough excitement to block out the fact my dad wasn't around. We didn't have time to miss his pancakes or him handing out the presents on Christmas morning.

It'll be like that, I guess. Mom's trying to make it fun, do something different. We can eat Chinese food or go to a seafood buffet, have a shopping trip at the outlet mall. I can get new boots. Maybe we can go bowling and drink too much beer, then go walk on the beach. We could fly kites. Or maybe I can talk Oscar into taking us to the casino—maybe it'll be so much fun I won't remember that Max is gone.

Or that Rachel's gone too.

When Thursday comes I'm surprised that I'm excited to go shopping. Claire and I haven't gone out in a while, so I'm looking forward to seeing her. It's busy all day at Remy's, so much so that I don't notice the time go by. There's one customer who lingers in the store past closing, but luckily, Melinda gives him the hint to hurry up. He finishes picking a T-shirt and brings it to the counter, where I ring him up, and he leaves. I help Melinda lock up, and I clock out. Outside, I find Claire's car parked at the curb. I open the passenger door and fall into the seat. She smiles and says hi.

"Thanks for leaving me the rest of the stir-fry last night," I say. "That's the best meal I've had in forever."

Claire glances in her side-view mirror and pulls into traffic. "You're welcome," she says. "I needed to do something, you know? Get away from studying for a bit. Cooking helps clear my head."

I nod. "You're all done with exams?"

She rolls her eyes and sighs. "Fuck yes, finally done. I hope I did okay on Molecular Bio. O-Chem seemed to be okay. I felt prepared for it."

"So," I say, "where you want to go?" I look at her. "The mall?"

She says sure, so she drives there. It takes us an eternity to find a parking spot, which didn't cross our minds beforehand. Of course the place is packed—it's two days before Christmas. Last-minute shoppers like us are out in full force. We circle one lot and then move on to another. Just as we're about to check the first one again, a family comes out of the mall doors. We follow them as they cut through rows of cars, and we take their spot after they leave. Once inside we get coffee and cinnamon rolls and go over our shopping lists. Claire doesn't know what to buy anyone, especially her dad.

"Clothes are easy," I say, but when Claire starts frowning I add, "but if that's no good, then food. Not groceries but a gift box. You know, like sausage and cheese?"

"I don't know." She goes back and forth, debating whether or not to get him skiing gloves or a wrench tool he can keep in the RV. I tell her we'll look around and if we don't find anything, then we know where the sausage and cheese kiosk is. After an hour, we finally get everyone checked off. Claire buys sweaters for her mom and her sister. We each get our dads a box of meat and cheese. For Oscar and Max I get baseball caps and for Mom a sweater too. I didn't want to get anything for Angela, but I figure I have to, so we stop at the Bath and Body Works store and get a candle.

Right after we get back in the car, Claire's phone goes off. She checks the message, then looks up at me.

"There's a party going on tonight," she says. She looks back at the message and scrolls through it. "To celebrate the end of the term. Want to come?"

"Uh..." All I want to do is go home. "Maybe?"

"It'll be fun, and we don't have to stay long." She looks at her phone again. "I don't want to go by myself."

"Doesn't Kurt want to go with you?" I say. When she doesn't answer, I'm hesitant to push further but do anyway. "Are you guys not seeing each other anymore?"

Claire chews her nails while looking out the windshield. The parking lot lighting makes her face look orange. "We're just friends."

"So, it's not like that? But you guys hang out a lot."

Claire says no and explains they created a study group, so that's what they usually do when they see each other. They've been to the bar a few times on top of that, but that's it. Maybe he's interested, but if so, it's not clear. Of course she'd like to know, but she doesn't want to be pushy.

"What do you mean? How can you be pushy? If anything, you should be more pushy."

Claire shrugs and looks out the window, facing away from me. She keeps chewing her nails. Then she puts her key in the ignition and starts up the car.

"Well," she says, "want to go to the party?"

I give her the answer she wants to hear.

Claire doesn't want to stop at home first—she wants to go straight to the party. She says it's a lot more driving if we swing by the apartment beforehand, so we don't. Better off staying nearby, going there now. She spends a lot of time glancing at her phone, looking for the directions to the house, so I make her give me the phone so I can do the navigating. We make it to North Portland and park on a narrow street. We walk up to a house, large and yellow, that has prayer flags strung over the porch.

Inside the house it's a zoo. People stand shoulder to shoulder, sit thigh to thigh. There's a lot of people I don't recognize, but some I do. Like Shell. When I see her, I try to turn around but it's too late.

"Marina!" she says, shouting. She comes toward me with her arms wide, and I flinch, but she swallows me in a clingy hug. "I'm so glad you're here!"

"Hi, Shell." I peel her arms off my shoulders, cringing inwardly at the thought of our last encounter. "How's it going? Looks like you know where the drinks are."

Her head bobbles like it's mounted on a spring, and she hovers close my face. Her breath reeks of booze. "There's lots of stuff. I like the jungle juice." She holds the cup in my face, and I have to grab it so it doesn't spill into my hair. "Want to try?"

"I'll get my own cup," I say. "Why don't you take me to the drink table, okay?"

She nods and bites her lip before grabbing my wrist, ruining my plan of escape. We weave through clumps of people in the room before arriving in the kitchen. On a counter are several mixing bowls full of red liquid. Shell finds a plastic drink cup and plunges it into one of those bowls at an angle. She fills it and thrusts it into my hand.

"Thanks," I say. The side of the cup is wet and sticky, so I find a paper towel to wipe it off. The vodka is cheap—I can tell by the smell. I drink it fast, but it's pretty nasty. The juice only partially masks the flavor.

Shell hasn't left yet, so I think of something to say. I ask her about the pool and how Mary is doing.

"Good," she says. "Mary's good." She takes another sip. "This stuff's great, isn't it? I want another." She turns around and plunges her red plastic cup into the bowl, ignoring the ladle. I wonder how many other people are serving up their drinks the same way. I hope I don't get sick.

"Whose house is this? Do you know?"

"It's Ryan's parents'. He's house-sitting because they're out of town."

I ask who Ryan is, wondering how I can get away. She says Ryan is the smart one in her physics class. Apparently, he's the class's go-to guy for right answers. When the professor asks everyone to solve the problem on the board, he's the first one raising his hand, ready with the solution. Shell likes him because he has really nerdy glasses.

"Hey, I've got to check on Claire. You remember her, right?"

"Claire? Who's that?" Shell says. She almost spills her drink again. "Wait, is that the girl you know? The blonde one?"

I nod, and when I turn around I see Claire. She's across the room, talking to a group of girls I don't know. I push through the crowd, and when I get to Claire, I grab her arm.

"How are you doing?" I say to her. "I just got escorted to the drink table."

Shell appears beside me, holding her cup out to Claire. "Try the juggle juice," she says.

"Um, okay." Claire reaches for the cup, but someone brushes by Shell, pushing her into Claire. The red liquid splatters all over Claire's blue shirt.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" Shell says. "Someone bumped into me." She raises her hand to her head, like she's holding a hat down so it doesn't fly away. "I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay, Shell," Claire says. When Shell starts tearing up, I grab Claire and pull her through several people's conversations in search of a bathroom. We find one down the hallway and go inside and lock the door. It's nice to be somewhere that's quiet, and I decide to pee while Claire's bent over the sink, rinsing her shirt out.

"Shell's acting like we're BFFs or something," I say, "and it's weirding me out. She's so trashed."

"Not to mention hella clumsy." Claire turns off the sink and grabs a towel to dry off the front of her shirt. "You haven't happened to see Justin or Kurt, have you?"

"They're here? Why didn't you tell me?"

"What?"

I clench my jaw and take a slow breath. "Nothing. I just didn't expect they'd be here."

"Everyone who's pre-med is here. That's who Ryan invited."

I flush the toilet, and Claire steps away from the sink so I can wash my hands. "I've been stuck with Shell from the moment we walked in, so no. I haven't seen either of them."

We leave the bathroom and head back to the kitchen. Claire gets a cup of jungle juice, and we migrate toward the living room. We squeeze onto the couch with some other girls that Claire knows, and she introduces me. I sip on my drink because I don't have anything to say—they're all talking about class and professors and exams. There's nothing for me to relate to.

Claire gets up, telling me she'll be right back. I don't want to be stuck here alone, but I remind myself that I can leave the couch whenever I want since nobody's talking to me. I'm just a face in the group, another body in this house packed full of people. Everyone here but me goes to the university, I bet. I take a long drink, feeling the cheap cup crinkle between my fingers and the shitty vodka burn my throat.

I look up and see Claire in the kitchen. She's running her fingers through her hair, pushing it to into a severe side part. She's fidgety, which makes sense: she's talking to Kurt. He stands with his side to the counter, leaning on it, holding a beer bottle. Just the way he's standing, you can tell he's a jerk.

I get up to go to the bathroom again. There's a line, so I go upstairs. Maybe there's another bathroom up there or just a quiet place to be for a while. On the staircase there are pictures, family photos, framed certificates of achievement for making the honor roll and being the best offensive player in soccer. From the repeated faces in the photos, I gather which kid is Ryan and which ones are his parents. They look like a happy family.

I climb to the top and open a door. It's a bedroom, so I open the next door. It's the bathroom, so I turn on the light. But then I shield my eyes because there's someone inside.

"I'm so sorry," I say. "Sorry—"

"Why don't you get the hell out of here?"

I recognize the girl's voice. And then I realize there's not just one person in the bathroom, but two people. I want to vomit because one of them is Justin. I thought I'd see him here—I was expecting it—and I've seen him in a Speedo countless times, but seeing him almost naked has thrown me off-kilter. His belt is undone, his shirt off. And what's worse, the other person is Shell, who's sitting on the counter with her dress hiked up and legs spread apart.

I turn away and nearly trip over my own feet. Over my shoulder I hear Shell call me a dumb-ass bitch.

I can't get out of the house fast enough.

I run as quickly as I can. I run down the sidewalk. I turn down a street and keep running. With every jarring step across the pavement, I hear myself thinking, _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You're so stupid._

A giant hand begins squeezing my lungs, so I stop. I lean against a tree, coughing. All the jungle shit comes up, splattering against the curb. It doesn't smell like vomit so much as rubbing alcohol and generic red fruit flavor. When I wipe my mouth on my sleeve, I know I look as disgusting as I feel.

I am stupid. Here I am, no car, no way to get home. I just abandoned my ride. And my ride—my best friend—has forgotten that I exist, all googly-eyed around a guy who doesn't want her.

Fuck her. Fuck Justin and Shell and everybody.

I keep walking, knowing I can get on the bus or call a cab. Eventually I find a thoroughfare and walk up the road, looking for bus shelters. After a minute I feel the need to slow down, to stop walking for a moment. I just need things to quit bouncing around. Ahead there's a bar, so I stop in front of it and lean against the siding. Seeping out of the walls is the rumble of country music and the aroma of deep-fried fish, and I light a cigarette. I take hungry drags, inhaling the smoke as fast as I can.

A woman comes out of the bar, laughing hard. She yells to a guy poking his head out the door and laughs again. Her hair is spiky, and her body round. When she's closer I see wrinkles in her face.

"Hi there," she says, lighting a smoke. "Nice night, huh?"

I shrug. "It's okay." I sniffle because it's cold.

"Only okay? Man, I just won eighty bucks on the slot machine." She hikes her thumb over her shoulder, pointing to the door she just walked out of. "Made all my money back and then some. Now, if that ain't good, then I don't know what is."

I smile. "That's awesome," I say. "Getting eighty bucks like that is pretty cool."

"Something good had to have happened to you." She takes another puff. "Come on. Anything? Don't tell me I lose my bet with Mr. Kensey in there." She points her thumb back at the bar. "He doesn't believe in karma, that sonofabitch." The woman takes another drag, smacking her lips before breathing out. "Bastard."

"I don't know," I say. I tell her in all honesty, it's been one hell of a day, and one hell of a month. But really—it's been a terrible year.

She scratches her head. Her laugh is deep and throaty, like sandpaper. "Well, spill it."

"It's a long story." I look out at the street, where someone's honking really loud. "Nobody's got time for that."

"Then give me the condensed version, girl."

So I do. And I'm amazed how condensed I make it and how interested this woman is in my stuff. Being drunk and winning at slots has something to do with it.

"But everyone's got family shit, girl," she says. "Hell, I got a ton of family shit, my ex and his fucking dog. How do you get stuck caring for someone's shitty-ass dog? It's stupid. Now, first thing you do is forget that sonofabitch dude—he's not important, because there's more fish out there." She coughs and sways a little. "Where was I? Oh, yeah—go tell your brother that he's your brother. And you've got to get along with him, with his girlfriend, even if you hate her. You've gotta stick together, man," she says, scratching the back of her neck. "It's blood, man. Blood."

"I guess." I take a drag. "I just wish I could see his smart-ass girlfriend's winter palace get crushed in an avalanche or something. Show them that money isn't going to buy everything, because you know what? It doesn't, because money doesn't buy shit..."

I stop talking because I can feel that the woman is not listening anymore. I wait, knowing she's just a drunk old lady in a dive bar, but the longer I stand there, the weirder it becomes.

I keep waiting for the woman to move, to start talking again. Maybe she's so trashed that she's spacing out? When I wave my hand in front of her face, she doesn't react. She doesn't even blink. She stays motionless, completely inanimate, like a statue. That's when I notice the smoke from her cigarette. It's not moving, not shifting in the air, rising like smoke does. It is a blurry cobweb, a cloudy patch that doesn't move when I swipe my fingers through it.

I turn around. Across the street at the 7-Eleven there's a man standing in front of the big glass doors, his hand glued to his ear. I can't tell if he's moving or not. All the cars nearby have stopped, even the ones whose stoplights are green. The drivers are staring straight ahead, unbothered by the perfect stillness.

I remember this feeling—he's here, I know it.

I raise my right hand. It's glowing.

Before I look behind me, I think about what I want to say. Can I fix it? Is there anything I can do to make him go away, do undo what I've done? Because I didn't mean to ask for a favor, I really didn't.

I turn around, and seeing the gray man brings both relief and panic. His pale skin, his glowing eyes and flaring nostrils, his upturned lips are features I've come to recognize. And I realize I don't actually like seeing him—I never have.

Rachel's words squeeze through tight spaces, replaying for me now. _He knows why you've come here.... He'll give you three gifts.... He doesn't give second chances.... He's not ordinary..._

Does everything have to be final? I couldn't have messed up, not like this.

"Wait—"

But I can't finish my sentence, because everything around me evaporates.

# 15

Not until I gasp do I realize how hard I was clenching my teeth and squeezing my eyes shut. Releasing all that pressure leaves everything feeling cramped and tingling. Overwhelmed. My heart starts beating in my ears. I breathe so hard I start coughing. When I realize how cold I am, I want to shrivel into a ball. I want to pull my knees to my chest and bury my face in my limbs. I want to be warm.

On the count of three, I get up, searching for balance and clues about my surroundings. There's snow, lots of it. Snow on the ground. Snow clinging to tree branches. Snow caked on my arms and legs. I brush it off, swiping at my limbs until all the powder is shed. My hands sting, so I pull them into my sleeves and wrap my coat tight around my waist. To conserve heat I pull my hood over my head. I rock back and forth to warm up, and when I peel my foot out of the snow, the walls around my footprint crumble. I take another step, then another. The snow penetrates my socks around my ankles, slipping into my shoes. I try to ignore it when I stop and look through a fan of ice-covered branches at the stars sparkling in the dark.

I keep walking in the frigid air that numbs my nose, my throat, my skin. I enter a large clearing that stretches uphill to my right. To my left it continues downhill, but not far away are buildings speckled with warm yellow lights. I slow down, squinting to make out any details.

I shift my weight to take my next step but stop. I'm on the edge of something. Of what, I don't know. What's wrong isn't clear. I don't know why I feel worried, why I feel anxious. But that feeling is there, that uneasiness that if you move, if you shift your weight or take a careless step, the ground will give way. That you'll slip and fall.

I stand, waiting for something to become obvious. I don't know what I'm expecting. Maybe someone will find me, talk to me. Maybe I need to go to the village below. Maybe I'll remember something, something that I forgot to do or set out to get done. Maybe I should go back, retrace my steps. Sometimes going back to where you came from jogs your memory, reminds you why you left.

Just when I decide to turn around, I hear something. A loud, unforgettable boom, like a big, faraway whip cracking boulders. The echo of it reverberates, bouncing off trees, off the ground.

Uphill there's a snowcapped peak, and I study it, holding my breath. At first it doesn't make sense, the sight of the peak fracturing, of that one part sloughing off. Even though it's easy to see in the moonlit snow, I think my eyes aren't seeing things right. After all, it is dark out here and very late at night. What I'm interpreting could be a total fabrication of fatigue.

Then it hits me: I'm on a mountain. I don't know how I got here or how much time I've spent wandering among the trees. I remember Claire and going Christmas shopping. I remember the party, the jungle juice, and Shell's nasty voice. I remember the old woman at the bar. I remember her face, how it turned to stone—

I run.

I don't know where I'm running to, but I cross the clearing. I see a cluster of houses and realize this is the right place. This is where I need to be. The houses on either side of the street are large, with giant windows, some illuminated while others are not. Parked cars line the street and fill driveways, their hoods dusted with fleecy snowfall.

Ahead of me, a man and woman are walking a dog. I yell at them, hoping it's Max and Angela, but it's not. When I see them up close, their brows crinkle, confused. The woman's lips part to respond, but only muffled gasps come out. The man grabs her elbow as I pass them.

I keep running. I almost slip and fall in the snow but recover and keep on going. At the end of the road there's a familiar car, a black Mercedes. It's the car I saw on Thanksgiving—it has to be. And the house it's parked by must be the house my brother and Angela are staying at. I turn my head to see the white cloud looming above the tree line, high above the rooftops.

_Marina?_ someone says.

I look ahead and see a man standing in the road, his face the one I've been looking for.

_Max!_ I say. _Max!_ I want to tell him everything. I want to tell him I'm sorry. I want there to be more time for talking.

_What in the hell are you doing here?_ he says, his eyes large and round. He starts another question, but his voice trails off as his gaze shifts to what's behind me. _Oh fuck,_ he says. He drops something and starts running.

We run together down the street, which winds downhill. His arms flash in and out of my field of vision; I can't look at him directly, the way I want to. I want to see if he's okay, but I know there's no time.

The snow underneath my shoes becomes clumpy, crumbly, but I keep running. I reach out to grab Max's hand, and though we're stumbling, we stay on our feet. There's a tug on my arm, and for a second I think he's being ripped away, but instead he pulls me toward a parked SUV. We jump onto the hood, our feet flexing the fiberglass underneath. For one pristine moment, I think yes, we still have each other, we're still together, but it doesn't last. I feel a shove from behind, and through no choice of my own, I jump into the air, flying into the cold spray of the wave enveloping us, tearing us apart, and for a second I see the star-studded sky before it's bleached away.

As if treading water, I swat my arms while trying to stay afloat in the snow. I try to keep my bearings, making note of which way is up, but being tossed around in the snow as it speeds along makes that impossible. I don't know if I'm getting buried or if I'm close to the surface. I don't know if I'll ever get out. The best I can do is to keep kicking, to cling to air when I find it. Finally I grab at something that is solid, that isn't moving with the current. I maneuver myself around it, using it as an anchor. I hug the thing with all the strength I have, hoping it's enough.

And then, just like that, the chaos stops. The snow quits moving. When I hear the sound of my own breathing, I look around.

The pole I'm clinging to is bent downhill but is still anchored to the ground. Thank god I was able to grab onto it, and thank god it wasn't uprooted. I'm only buried in snow to my hips. It takes some wiggling and digging to dislodge myself, but I do it. I stumble for several yards, rarely completing a full step.

_I need to find Max,_ I think. _I need to find Max right now._ There isn't anything around me but whiteness and trees and houses that are indistinguishable from one to the next. Doors are broken, busted off their frames from too much torque. Large windows are shattered. Rooftops have warped, covered by thick white piles. I have no point of reference, no idea where in this mess my brother could be.

"Max!" I say. "Where are you? Max!" I keep shouting, my throat hurting more each time. He's nearby. He has to be.

Then, a block or two back, I see the house. It has to be the right one, because it's gnarled worse than the others, its backside completely smashed by bundles of crusty snow. The roof has caved in, boards having splintered and pushed upward through the surface like broken bones. It's by far the most damaged out of all the houses in sight.

I try to remember what happened. It went by so fast. It happened a hundred years ago. It happened within the boundaries of a nightmare that I haven't yet left.

I grab my temples, pulling my hair at the scalp. "Fucking think," I say out loud. I saw him. We ran. Then what? We jumped on the car. I was pushed and carried downhill, away. Did he get carried downhill too? The thought of not finding Max makes me so sick I can't focus—I can't let myself go there. I need to be analytical, rational, if I'm going to find him.

Around me all kinds of junk is scattered, mixed up in the snow. There are branches, pine needles, pieces of wood and glass. I keep my eyes trained on the ground, scanning it yard by yard. I walk ahead carefully, my feet probing the ground. I listen for clues, for an indication of his whereabouts. If he is buried under all that snow, then I need to find him fast.

A thought, a solution slaps me across the face—it's so obvious—and I search my jacket pockets. My hands are clumsy, but I do find my cell phone, and praise Jesus there's still a charge. While waiting for the call to go through, I hold my breath. I funnel all my energy into my ears. Hoping for a hum or a song or a beep to sound in the frosty air.

I think I hear something, but the sound dies out, so I call again. This time I realize it's not a sound but a vibration, a throb coming from nearby, from underneath the snow. I shuffle forward. I turn left. The call goes to voicemail again, so I dial a third time. When the humming appears under my shoes, I kneel on the ground, pressing my ear to the snow.

"Max," I say, surprised to hear my voice. The words that pass my lips are sharp, rigid. They're a jagged blade cutting through glass. I wonder if he can hear me. I wonder if he knows I'm close.

"Max?" I say again. Though I hear nothing, I feel the panic, the snow strangling him. I feel the fear of running out of air.

At first my hands pierce the snow like shovels, digging out one armful at a time and flinging it behind me. A minute later I lose momentum, and my arms and fingers feel floppy and weak. It's starting to make me dizzy, the digging, but I keep going. I keep going because I have to. The hole needs to be wider in order to get deeper, and I need to get deeper to get him out. When I feel his fingers, my spirits lift for a second. I shout, telling him to move. I uncover his face and yell more.

"Max! Can you hear me? Max!" I say. I brush his bangs off his forehead and study him. His eyes remain shut, and his lips cracked open. Again I start to dig, uncovering parts bit by bit. When I get his shoulders exposed, I grab him under his arms and pull up. His body is hard to control. It's clunky, like pieces of wood jumbled in a bag that shift and move and slide past one another when I try to move him. His head rolls to the side, his arms slapping the ground when I let them go.

I reposition myself to get off my knees and onto my feet. Crouching forward, I have more leverage to pull him up. My whole body works when I grab him, when I hug his chest tight. When his cold ear touches my cheek, I feel how alone we are. We're just two people on a mountain, surrounded by rubble, by snow, by the squirrels and birds and other alpine animals that all want to survive too.

I grit my teeth, lifting, until his knees come out of the snow. He becomes heavier and tips me to the left. We fall. I push his shoulder over so he's on his back, and then I drag him onto flat snow.

"Max?" I say his name half a dozen times. On his neck I feel for a pulse. I listen for breathing. My fingers are numb, so I put them in my mouth and breathe hot breath on them. I try again. My hands are trembling so bad that I can't figure out if there's a pulse. He's cold all over.

I pinch his nose. It's cold between my fingers. I bend down and blow air into his mouth, then I clutch my hands together for compressions. I do lots of them. I remember the song "Staying Alive."

I hate that song.

I've done this before. I've done CPR, and it worked. I don't know how well I did, if I did everything within my power to keep the swim coach from harm, but I was able to save his life. This situation, though, is different. It's something completely foreign, because this is Max. This is my brother. He's part of the backdrop of my entire life.

I pump harder, going faster to make up for lost time. I pause for two more breaths. When I do compressions again, they're violent—again and again, I shove his torso into the graveled ice. I scream through clenched teeth, making my throat go raw. I'll keep going until my lungs give out, until my arms break off. I'll keep going until I can't move anymore, because if I fail, I don't want to be alive to know it.

# 16

I nearly have a heart attack when Max starts breathing. When he gasps I think I'm imagining it, so I do a couple more compressions before realizing he's conscious. Exhausted, I fall onto my side, panting, and roll onto my back. Through my thick breaths hanging above me, I stare at the night sky, feeling the world opening up again.

Beside me Max's jacket rustles in the snow. His breathing is wheezy but stable. After a bit he whispers, "Marina? Are you still there?"

I reach for him, my arm slithering along the ground because it's too heavy to lift. The back of my hand lands on Max's chest, resting, making sure he's still there. Part of me still feels like I messed up, that he'll seize up and stop breathing.

"You still there?" I say to him. "You better not make me resuscitate you again."

"Okay," he says. "I won't."

"Promise, because it fucking sucks."

"I think," he says, wincing, "that you broke some of my ribs." He coughs and swears under his breath. I listen for any dangerous signs in his breathing, but there don't seem to be any, which is a relief. I turn my head, laying my cheek into the chilly ground. Max's chest rises and falls, keeping a consistent rhythm.

"Hey, Max," I say.

"What?"

"Tell me what seven times nine is."

"Are you kidding?" He coughs but recovers. I tell him to answer, to tell me anyway. He scowls at the stars. "It's sixty-three. Why are you asking?"

"Just making sure you're not brain damaged," I say. "How about three times eleven?"

He says thirty-three. When I ask what's eight times four, he says thirty-two.

"No, it's not." I laugh. "It's twenty-eight."

"I know it's thirty-two," he says. "You must be thinking seven and four."

"No, that's not it." I flex my fingers, using them to help me count. My fingers are so cold, though.

"You sure _you're_ not brain damaged?" Max says. "Maybe I should be asking you the questions."

"No, don't." I clutch my face, covering my eyes. "You'll think I'm retarded."

He laughs and coughs again. He grabs his stomach, holding his gut for stability. "Too late."

Lying on our backs, we keep laughing, though our laughter is labored. There's no energy left in either of us to do anything but stay still, to wait. To hold on for a second wind. I tell him I'm going to try to sit up, but my body protests, demanding to rest. I settle back in the snow. It feels cold at first, but it's colder to be sitting up, my back and neck exposed to open air.

"Marina?" Max says.

"What?"

"Why did you come all the way up here? How did you know where to find us?"

My voice catches in my throat. I don't know what to say, how to answer.

"Did you come on a bus or something? The train? How did you know where to go once you got here?"

The questions echo, bouncing around inside my head. What can I say without sounding crazy, crazier than he already thinks I am? Eventually, I start crying.

"Tell me something," Max says. He sighs when I don't answer but keep sniffling. He asks again if I came on the bus, so I nod: it's the best I can do. And when he asks how I found him, how I found out where the house was, I say I got lucky.

Max stops pressing me, and we both stay put in the snow. My head hurts. My body aches. My eyes burn. I want this to be over, to move past this moment in time.

"You know, Marina," Max says, his voice quiet and raspy, "even though I wish you would've talked to me, that you didn't just show up here, I'm glad you did anyway. Because if it wasn't for you, I would've been..." He pauses, letting out a sigh. "I wouldn't have survived. Thank you for saving me."

The stars melt from view as another rush of tears floods my eyes. I blink them away, and they're hot as they roll down my cheeks.

"I'm sorry about Thanksgiving," I say. "I'm really sorry about everything." I wipe my cold sleeve across my face. "I don't want anyone to die."

"We're alive," he says. "We're okay."

"Okay." I sniffle more. "But I think we have to get up. On the count of three..."

I count one, two, and wait. The word three passes my lips, but my limbs don't budge. It's funny how when you're fatigued your body takes charge, or rather, refuses to obey. How fatigue works like a drug, coursing through your muscles to make them indignant. Fatigue makes you not care so much. It makes you accept and move on. And the fact that Max doesn't try to do anything means he has less energy than me.

"Marina," he says after I let out a big sigh.

"Yeah?" I turn my head, looking at him. He clings to his chest, his hand curled around the other wrist as if holding it in place. The way he's doing it makes me wonder if something's wrong with his hand. I look away, letting the sky devour my sight.

"Is this a dream?" he says.

Above us there are so many stars. I've never taken time to look at them before, not really. Of course, I've looked outside to catch a blood moon, to see the Big Dipper. I used to look for the North Star, knowing it was the brightest one out there. For some reason, though, I could never tell which one it was. I still don't know where it is, or where I'd look for it among so many others. But all stars are beautiful, even if you don't know their names.

"Could be," I say. I scratch my temple, my fingers thawing against my face. "I don't know."

"Well, we're going to have to wake up. Soon."

I agree, saying all right. I'm down with that, because it's about time to wake up. To really, truly wake up. The realization that I'm weak, helpless, and in a strange place—that we almost died just now—that everything could disappear again—is as harsh as breathing in water, getting it caught in your throat and nose. It's time to start over, to take my second chance. All I need to do is let my eyes rest a little.

The noises are not real until a steaming sponge flickers at my nose, at my cheek. A spritz of sour breath like morning rain shocks me. Before opening my eyes, I reach for the dog, grabbing its burly neck. The heat of his tongue burns my icy cold fingers. Afar, there's shouting. Then a man approaches and kneels near me. He touches my face and neck, then starts sputtering questions. Not long after Max and I are lifted off the ground and told to lie still, they're putting us in a sled stretcher. I do whatever they say because I don't have to do the thinking anymore. That's something for which I'm thankful, since I didn't have enough space in my brain to make a plan earlier.

The first responders pack us into ambulances, poking and prodding us until we arrive at the hospital, and we're ushered into other rooms down a long hallway that bends left and right. Someone orders me into a wheelchair, and I ask if I can keep my clothes. A nurse gives me a funny look before telling someone else I should have my head checked out.

After I get out of the scan room, they say I have a concussion. It's minor, though—they'll release me, but I need to get rest, and I can only take Tylenol because ibuprofen or aspirin could increase bleeding, thereby exacerbating the situation. Acknowledging this, I nod. Then I ask for my brother, if I can see him now. They say he's already out. Really? I say, and they say yes, really.

The ER lobby is completely full, with people lined up by the counter and many sitting down. It smells like snow, the air made damp from the water dripping off their boots. I search the crowd for Max and see him talking to Angela and an older man and woman. Angela's parents, probably. Seeing their brows furrowed, their arms crossed, and the way they're dressed up in nice clothes, I don't want to interrupt. In fact, I don't want to be seen or noticed or acknowledged by them at all. I want to leave, to be somewhere else. But it's too late, because one after the other, they turn to face me. I wrap my hands across my chest to prop me up, to keep me from cowering. Max has told them about me, about what happened—I can see it in their faces.

"Hi," I say to nobody in particular. To avoid suffocating in the silence, I look at my shoes. I don't know what to do. Max doesn't either, apparently, so he says nothing—I can't really blame him.

The tall man breaks the silence. "Hi there," he says, "I'm Stan, and this," he says, pointing to the slender woman standing next to him, "is my wife, Sarah." Her smile toward me is thin, a penciled curve on her face.

I nod, acknowledging the introduction but not bothering to offer my hand to shake. "Nice to meet you," I say quietly. I can't believe I'm here right now, intruding on their vacation, let alone making them wait until I get released from the hospital. I'm so embarrassed I could die.

Sarah turns away, looking toward Max. "What happened again? You were outside when it hit?" He says yes and explains. From watching and listening to them, I gather they were having dinner in the village. Angela forgot her purse, which is why Max drove back to the house. I watch Angela and her parents hang onto each word, soaking up the story in bits. Max was in the street and going back to the car when we ran into each other, and then the snow—a big cloud of it—appeared out of nowhere, and after that, we ran, but he tripped and fell. Then things got fuzzy, but I found him and helped him get free. He doesn't mention the part about suffocating in the snow or me reviving him—and I get it. He wants to downplay the scary part; he doesn't want to remind himself that he almost died. He doesn't want anyone else to worry or fuss over it, either.

"So," Angela says, "you knew she was taking the bus up here? Why didn't you tell us earlier that your sister was coming?"

"It came up last minute," Max says, lying. "Sorry, I really am. This is my fault," he says to Stan and Sarah. He casts a sideward glance at me, making it clear that he's covering my ass. I covered his ass by saving his life earlier and keeping it quiet. Now we're even, I guess. That's fair.

The air stiffens as Angela and her parents exchange looks, and I feel guilty for making Max look bad in front of them. I feel bad for being in the way. I feel responsible for the avalanche too, for causing this disaster. As we stand together, I hug my elbows tighter and count the tiles on the floor. I test my multiplication skills, using the grid lines that stretch across the ground. The others talk with one another, but I tune it out.

"Hey, Marina," Max says to me.

"Uh-huh?" I say, looking up. I try not to make eye contact with anyone else, though their eyes wait to meet mine.

"We're going," he says. "You need anything else here?" To answer, I shake my head. At that we file out, leaving the hospital behind and walking into frosty dawn air. My clothes are still damp, but I push the discomfort aside. The entire way to the car, I keep a step behind, feeling the thorniness of my presence: I'm intruding on their vacation, and the fact that Max is taking the blame for it makes me feel even worse. Inside the car I hunch close to the door, staring at the pink cloudy wisps lingering above the mountains and the sun climbing through the sky.

We arrive at a motel and check in to a big room with two queen beds and a living room area. Inside, we disband, seeking out different places to rest. I curl onto the couch and empty my pockets onto the coffee table. All I have are my phone and a receipt from the Plaid from three days ago. I lost my purse along the way, probably when I tumbled after the snow hit me. That means that I'm totally at the mercy of these people. I couldn't even buy a bus ticket out of here if I wanted to, dammit.

Sarah turns on the TV and stands in front of it, watching the news coverage of the avalanche. In the other room Stan makes phone calls, and Max and Angela make multiple trips to the car. I watch TV until the edges of my eyelids feel raw, so I close my eyes. I sort through murmurs and mumbles, dreading any reference to me. I catch part of Max and Angela's conversation about Thanksgiving. He tells her I wanted to say sorry, that I felt so bad I couldn't just say so over the phone. I wanted to see him in person and couldn't wait. Even though I hate hearing them talk about me, about how I have a hard time keeping stable, it's okay: it's kind of true, that I'm not so together. At least that takes some of the pressure off Max, which makes me feel a little better. Just a little, though, since now I'm Max's sister, the hot mess who has breakdowns and gets needy and wants to crash other people's holidays.

Stan and Max talk about leaving, wanting to investigate the state of the house. The air swirls before the door closes hard, indicating they've left. Angela and her mom talk in the bedroom, their words difficult to make out. Suddenly, keys clang together and some plastic rumples nearby. I open my eyes when the couch cushion next to me sinks.

Angela, who hasn't spoken to me the entire time, asks if I want to come shopping with her and her mom.

"I'll just stay here," I say. "I'm really tired."

"You're going to need something else to wear," she says. Her mom is fumbling in the bathroom, and the toilet flushes.

"I'll be okay." I lift my arms from my lap, showing her my sleeves. "I've got a sweatshirt on."

"But it's soaked, and we all need things anyway." She pats my thigh in a "there, there" kind of way. "We're getting something for you whether you like or not. We all could use a change of clothes right now."

"That's really nice of you." I glance at her quickly before looking at my knees. "I'm sorry..." I want to say sorry for losing my purse, sorry I just showed up here with no explanation, sorry for being mean, for being cruel, for not being fair. Instead of saying any of those things, though, I swipe my sleeve across my face, rubbing tears off my cheeks.

Angela leans closer, her fingers landing on my elbow. "It's going to be okay," she says, "the bad things are over. All right?"

I nod, squinting so hard that, for a moment, I don't know if my eyes can open again.

"Come on," she says, "let's go get matching sweat suits." I give in, laughing at the thought of me and Angela and Sarah wearing pink velour pants and zip-up jackets. For a second I forget how terrible I feel about everything else, about my screw-ups. I sniffle and swipe my face clean again. Angela tugs on my elbow to guide me off the couch, toward the door, and we go.

We leave Whistler and drive to the next town, Squamish. Sarah says prices here aren't as through-the-roof as they are by the ski lodges. We stop at a drugstore for toiletries since the hotel's tiny tubes of shampoo aren't enough. Sarah pushes the cart as we walk down each aisle, and Angela grabs everything from face wipes to granola bars to deodorant.

On our way out, Sarah says it's high time we eat something, that food will make us all feel better. Besides, she's got a craving for doughnuts, and we deserve something sweet, god dammit. And coffee. You can't have doughnuts without coffee, so after loading up the car, we drive across the street to a coffee shop for breakfast. I choose an éclair, which is the most amazing thing I've had in my life. The steam rising off my cup of coffee makes me feel better until I think about cigarettes. Coffee and nicotine go well together, so well that I want a smoke worse by the second. I drink my coffee fast, burning my tongue, in an effort to put out the craving.

Next we go to Walmart for clothes. We get another shopping cart and fill it with two packages of socks, underwear, men's and women's sweatpants, sweatshirts, camisoles, and a few packages of t-shirts for all of us to wear. Sarah picks out a pair of slip-on shoes so she can get out of her strappy high heels. When Sarah picks up the bill at the checkout, I thank her eighty million times.

"You're welcome, honey," she says. Again, her smile is slight but sincere. She says she's grateful that no one got hurt, that life is so much better now that she's out of that flimsy gown and in long sleeves. Although what I'm wearing is no cocktail dress, there's something to be said for changing into fresh clothes. You shed a lot of bad feelings, trading them for good ones, when you put on new socks and a dry shirt and pants.

When we get back to the hotel, I help unload the car. Max and Stan are still gone, and Angela and Sarah turn on the TV again. The newscasters interview one expert after another to discuss the live footage and eyewitness accounts. Seven people so far are missing, and one person died in the hospital from internal injuries. Each new story makes my stomach rise, coming closer to my throat. The time comes when I can't take it any longer, so I put on my shoes and tell Angela and Sarah I'm going for a walk. I won't be gone long, which they say is fine. They're not going anywhere.

Outside in the crisp air, I watch where I'm walking, careful to step where the snow is thinner, where I can walk without it sneaking up to my ankles. Too bad I don't have snow boots right now—or even rubber boots, for that matter. If my feet get wet, then I'll be back at square one again, cold and damp. I'm already uncomfortable enough as it is, having no money, none of my own things, and no way out of my current situation.

Following the sidewalks and street signs to what everyone calls the Village, I feel farther away from the wilderness and closer to modern life, to civilization. I kept thinking the Village was a bunch of log cabins, a cluster of rustic wooden buildings nestled into the side of the mountain. They'd be serving up hot cocoa and beef stew to skiers wanting a break. But the Village isn't like that. Its wide streets, which are paved under the snow, have been plowed recently. Maybe even this morning, since the seams in the cobblestone-like pavement show through. Lining either side of the street are dozens of gift shops, bars, restaurants, tour offices, sporting goods shops, and apparel boutiques—some high-end fashion, others athletic clothing. When I reach the ski lodge at the end of the road, I slow down then turn around. I wander down another street, not stopping until I see what I've been hoping for: someone with a cigarette.

"Hi," I say to the man after getting close enough. "Sorry to bother you, but could I bum a smoke?" I try not to smile too big. I try not to be too pushy or desperate, but I really want a cigarette.

"Sure," he says, "no problem." He shifts his weight and reaches into his back jeans pocket. He pulls out a smoke from a pack of Luckies, handing it to me. "Here." He also hands me a Zippo lighter. On the side, etched into it, is the Jack Daniel's logo.

"Oh my god, thank you," I say, bringing the filter to my mouth. I work the lighter, protecting the flame with both hands cupped. When the end catches fire, I pull away, snapping the lighter shut. In my lungs the smoke tingles, exciting the tiny cells, encouraging the blood to flow again. I exhale. "You have no idea how much this means. This made my day, man. Thank you."

The guy nods and takes a long drag, his fingers pressed to his mouth while the end of his cigarette pulses brighter. His hand drops away, as if the smoke has pushed it from his lips. "No worries, girl. I've been there."

I hold the smoke in my lungs and let it out slowly, savoring everything about it.

"This avalanche shit," he says before pausing to exhale, "is crazy, huh?" He sighs, his breath a small cloud. "I mean, I was going to go night skiing yesterday, but I decided last minute to go out for drinks instead." He looks around the sky, glancing at the direction of the slopes. "And if I hadn't done that, you know, I could've gotten killed. All it took was a phone call. That changed my life."

I nod and tell him I agree. He goes on, saying the universe works in strange ways, and the older he gets, the more he sees it. "There is no free will," he says, "Not really." Of course, he'd like to see free will working. Don't we all want to believe that? But it's an illusion, a misrepresentation. You have free will within a prescribed atmosphere, within boundaries, that is determined by things that aren't in your control. Like who your parents are, where you live, what kind of society you're part of, what the cultural expectations are, and where on the social ladder you reside. You're a product of that, no matter what you think or do. That's why getting out of poverty is almost impossible. That's why being born to a rich family means your life is easier. That's why the universe is a crazy place: he got a phone call from a friend nearby, a friend he wouldn't have had if he wasn't part of the same ski club. A club he joined because he grew up skiing...

I nod and say sure, I get it. The guy's been talking so long that his cigarette has burned partway down, leaving a block of ash hanging on the end. When my smoke's over I put out the butt on the ground by my shoe, and tiny whistles erupt from the snow.

"Thanks again, man," I say after standing back up. "Take care now. Have a good one."

He nods and tells me I should do the same.

I turn away and start walking. The first trash can I find is by a gift shop, so after I toss the butt, I walk inside the store. I wander the aisles, browsing the shelves and tables of clothing, shot glasses, key chains—it's not that different from Remy's. I turn the rotating tower of postcards, looking through photographs of the mountains, of a lake nearby surrounded by evergreen trees. There's a photo of a black bear walking along a rocky stream bank, and I realize I've never seen a bear before. Maybe I'll see one before I leave? I'd like to think so, but I figure it's a long shot.

Someone taps on my shoulder. I turn, and it's the man, the one who gave me the cigarette.

"Hi," I say, wondering what he wants.

"Hi again," he says, "I think you dropped this back there. It's yours, right?" He puts his fist out and opens his upturned hand, his fingers uncurling. In his palm is not just any pendant, but a locket. _The_ locket. The thing that I've tried to block out of my thoughts. The thing I've tried to remove from my life ever since I found it on the beach that one night.

"Um..." I reach for it but hesitate. I look at him, making eye contact, pressing hard into his pale eyes. "How did you find this?"

"It fell out of your pocket when you bent over, I think." He shrugs. "Well, it's yours. Take it." He pushes his hand closer to me.

I look at it, the locket. I'd recognize it anywhere. When I hesitate, he speaks again.

"Take it," he says, but his voice has a different sound. I glance up at him, looking at his face, and for a second, I see a flicker in his eyes, like there are flames behind them. My throat cinches shut, and my body becomes rigid. I want him to go away or to get away myself, but I know that's not possible.

Slowly I reach for the locket, stretching my arm through an invisible hole, careful not to touch the sides. When I grab it, I try to pinch the hinge, touching only that part. My fingernails settle into the divots, and I lift it out of the man's hand and drop it into the pocket of my sweatshirt. My lips move to say thank you, but my voice is less than a whisper. I'm not thankful. I'm paralyzed, feeling helpless, violated in a way I can't define.

"No problemo," the man says, his voice normal again. "Bye now." He walks away, and I lean against the wall behind me. Only after a several minutes do I realize I'm staring at the mountain beyond the Village. It's dingy looking, the edges smudged by clouds and dust and airborne snow from the recent avalanche. The colors are muted, and the sun is hidden behind a thick, dull shroud. The sight of the mountain isn't enticing or happy or inspiring: it looks nothing like a postcard.

The trek back to the hotel room seems to take hours, though it's a short walk. While my feet crunch the snow, I'm reminded of the here and now, of the need to keep time. My steps mark each second while I take in what just happened—the thing with that man. The locket, how it came back to me again. The avalanche. The gray man. I need to walk while thinking about everything, because if I stand still, I'll get dizzy. I'll drown in my thoughts.

When I get back to the hotel, I find that Max and Stan have made it back. Everyone's inside now, hovering around the beds covered in plastic bags, clothes, papers, and brochures. I ask what's going on, what Max and Stan learned on their trip out. Apparently, the ski runs and surrounding neighborhoods are closed and being evacuated. No one is allowed to go back to their property until further notice. So there goes any chance of grabbing anything from the house or even taking a look at the place. Since there's not much else to do here, they decided while I was gone that we'd hit the road, go home. Max already called Mom—she knows I'm here.

"Oh," I say, pushing my hair behind my ear. I cross my arms tight against my ribs. I feel naked though I'm covered in several layers of clothing. "Is she mad?"

"What?" Max says. "Why would she be mad?"

I shrug.

"You mean because you magically popped up here?" Max says, laughing. "No, she's not upset about that. She's glad everyone's accounted for and that nobody got hurt...I mean, not seriously, anyway." He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "You know what I mean."

"Right." I shake my head, trying to not think too hard about everything Max just said. "Right. When are we going?"

"As soon as we can," he says. "We've got a long drive ahead. We're all going to the beach."

We get on the road by noon. Since we hardly have anything but the clothes we're wearing, there's not much to pack. Max, Angela, and I cram into the backseat of the SUV. I get the window seat and stare at the scenery outside. It takes me until we get to Vancouver to compose a text to Claire. It's the first reply to the eight messages she's sent since last night.

She found out about Justin and Shell and figured that's why I left. She didn't know, however, where I went or why I wasn't answering her texts. She was worried.

I tell her I'm sorry, that it's a long story and I'm okay—I'll explain later. After I press SEND, I wonder what that will look like, the explaining. Where do I start? How much should I say? That I ended up crashing Max's vacation but saved his life? That I was in the avalanche? That I might've caused the avalanche? That if it weren't for me, for saying dumb things...no. I can't go there. I'll never be able to go there, never be able to explain any of that.

When we get to the Canada-US border, we have to wait line for the checkpoint. There are dozens of cars ahead of us, dozens more behind, and dozens of dozens in adjacent lanes. They're probably other vacationers whose plans got disrupted by the Whistler avalanche too. We keep waiting, pulling forward one car length at a time. It takes about an hour, but finally we arrive at the booth. At the pull-up window there's an officer, an armed one. As we stop, he turns to look at Stan, who's in the driver's seat.

"Passports, please," the border guard says. From the far side of the car, I only see his gloved hand, palm up and reaching toward Stan from the window. Sarah reaches into her purse and withdraws several cards. As soon as I see the words _United States of America: Passport Card_ , I realize this is something I don't have.

Sarah hands the cards to Stan, who in turn passes them to the border guard. He shuffles through them, squinting at each photo. He stoops down, looking into the cab. "How many are there of you? Five?" He pins me with his eyes, staring hard.

"Hold on," I say. I fumble with a plastic bag by my feet with hopes of a better idea to come.

"Anyone crossing into the US needs to present a passport or a passport ID card," he says. He's wearing a headset that makes him look serious, less than sympathetic. When I see the black-and-yellow arm patch on his uniform, I turn away, looking back down at my feet.

We sit in the car, and no one says anything. I can feel what they're thinking: that I'm a moron who causes problems. I'm unstable, dumb. A fuck-up. Why wouldn't I have brought this up sooner? We had time to deal with it before we left. Didn't I know I needed a passport to cross the border? They probably hate me right now, especially Max.

The silence means I have to answer for myself.

"I think I have my driver's license," I say. I make more noise with the bag, then check my pockets. "Sorry, just a sec—"

"I cannot let you inside of the country without proper documentation, miss."

"I'm a US citizen," I say, feeling the sensitivity of the situation. "I was born in the U.S., I swear." Does he think I'm an illegal? Oh, god. Oh, god, no. Would Max and Angela's family have to leave me here? What would the Canadians do with me? The problem grows bigger as the seconds pass, and the guard tells us to get out, to vacate the car. Sarah sighs, and we all unbuckle and step out. Another guard comes and opens the trunk, inspecting what's inside.

The first border guard summons me and asks questions I don't have answers for. What was the purpose of my trip? How long was I here for? Where did I stay? Did I arrive with the others, together? I clench my teeth. Anything I say feels like a wrong answer—he's decided I'm guilty of something, I know it. I look over to see Stan and Max walking over to us, coming to intervene. I'm thankful when Stan starts answering questions.

"It was a family trip, a vacation...we got here three days ago...at our vacation home..." Stan says. He crosses his arms across his chest and rests his weight on one leg. He looks more tired than annoyed, and I feel terrible.

When the guard asks about how and when I got here, my throat closes up.

"She came on the bus," Max says. "Greyhound."

"What day?" the guard asks me.

"Uh, yesterday."

"Time?"

"I don't remember. Maybe in the late afternoon?" I say.

The guard picks up a phone and says he's calling the Canadian border guard checkpoint to confirm. When he says that, I feel my gut shrink, ripping my insides out of place. He's not going to find anything, because I didn't come that way. Behind my eyes I feel the beginnings of tears. Blinking just a few more times will cause them to drop, to run down my face.

"They don't have record of a bus coming through then. Was it this gate? Or was it at Pacific Highway? Sumas? Lynden?"

I don't know what to say. I grab my temples and take a deep breath.

"Miss?"

"I don't remember."

"Miss, I need you to cooperate." His voice is rigid, stern. He could crush me and my story—my cover story—with nothing but his voice. He found the lie and is squeezing hard.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm trying to remember."

"Listen," somebody says from behind me. "She was found by search and rescue workers after the avalanche at Whistler. They took her to the hospital."

I turn around and see it's Angela who's talking. She must've approached without my hearing her.

"And about a month ago, she was in a car accident too, so she's been through a lot recently." Angela explains how we've all been through a lot—Max was also found by search and rescue and was taken to the hospital. On top of that, his car is buried, and her parent's vacation home is destroyed. Everyone has lost most of their stuff. She would've lost her passport card too if she had put it back into her wallet, which was in her purse, which is inside Max's lost car. If that were the case, then there'd be two of us without proper ID. She pushes the heel of her hand across her forehead and sighs.

The guard nods, listening. When the other man finishes searching our car, he gives it the go-ahead. It's clean, nothing illegal. The guard steps back into his booth. He makes a call, then he motions me to come closer. I wonder if this is it—if I'm going to a detention center or something.

"Miss, where were you born?" he says.

I tell him.

"Social security number?"

I give it to him. I say it so fast I wonder if I said it wrong. I go back over it in my head.

"What hospital?"

I tell him Providence Newberg Medical Center. I almost tell him how my family was going camping that weekend and on the way my mom went into labor, so we stopped at the hospital instead of the campground. My lips part to continue, but before I can say anything the border guard says he's already verified my information through the system.

"There's a system?" Stan says, curious.

"Yep, there's your birth certificate." The border guard turns to me. "It's a match. I know there were extenuating circumstances this time around," he says, his eyes wide with the whites showing, "but you need to have proper documentation when you're entering the US."

"So," Stan says, hesitating, "we can cross now?"

"Yeah," the guard says in return. He looks down and then waves at Stan to come closer. "Here you go, Mr. Sullivan," he says, handing back the ID cards. "Welcome back to the US."

Stan holds the cards, looking down to count all four. He tells the guard thanks, his voice exasperated. Still feeling rattled, shaking a little, I crawl back into the car with everyone else. We shut the doors and drive away.

After we clear the gate, after the border crossing is out of sight, it still feels like the crisis is pending. That I'm not yet in the clear, though I know it's fine. Thank god for Angela—she totally saved my ass back there, getting me out of that mess. If it weren't for her smooth-talking the border guard, I don't know what would've happened. Things would've been worse, for sure.

We stop at a gas station outside of a town called Everett, where we stretch our legs. Angela, Sarah, and I go inside to use the bathroom. Angela says she has to go first—she's had to go since we got in line at the border. Her bladder won't last another second. Sarah rolls her eyes, saying, "I didn't need to know that."

When I get out of the bathroom, I notice a guy standing far off, smoking. I think about approaching him, bumming a smoke, but decide against it. I don't think I could make everyone's impression of me worse—nobody's a fan of a smoker—but I won't risk it. Not now.

On the other side of the car, the guys are waiting for the gas tank to fill. I join them, watching the numbers tick up, up, up.

"That border guard," Stan says. "Can you believe that guy?" He tilts his head back, looking at the roof of the overhang, and snickers. "After putting us through that interrogation, he could've just looked up your birth certificate? He made it seem like we were guilty of a crime. It felt like they were going to detain us or something."

At least that makes me feel better. A little bit.

# 17

Our drive through Washington is uneventful, which is a departure from the rest of the last twenty-four hours. There aren't any wrecks, no cops to slow down for. Even the traffic is clear, which Angela says is a surprise. She says they always get caught in the congestion between Seattle and Tacoma, and then for the long stretch beyond where the stop-and-go traffic goes on for miles. I wouldn't have believed her if I didn't see the endless line of cars going northbound, their bumpers glued together. I frown, thinking about being one of those people. I ask Angela if it's usually like that, pointing to the cars headed north. "Oh yeah," she says. "It's a pain in the butt."

When we cross the border into Oregon at seven thirty, Stan says we made record time, considering our delay at the border. Six and a half hours of driving time is what he's impressed with—usually it takes them eight. While they talk about which route is better, which time of day is less congested, and which border entry checkpoint has the shortest lines, I force a smile and laugh before looking out the window. I didn't take any of those routes on my trip up.

Although the locket hasn't moved from my sweatshirt pocket, I keep patting it, tracing the edge with my fingers to make sure it's still there. Because each time I let it out of my sight or try to get rid of it, the damn thing finds its way back. It's clear now that I can't avoid dealing with the locket—with the gray man—any longer. They're haunting me, and there's only one way to escape them both.

When my head bumps against the window, I realize I've fallen asleep. Except for the streetlights outside and the glowing dashboard gauges, everything is dark. I let my eyes adjust to the new darkness. Max is in the front passenger seat, and Sarah's in the back with me and Angela. They're both waking up too, because the car's slowing down. Everything's fuzzy, but I know where we are, and I couldn't feel more relieved. Finally, I'm in a place that I belong—this coastal town is like a second home to me. I've missed it.

Max points to a house on the corner of the street ahead of us, and Stan pulls into the driveway and turns the engine off. Arms stretch, joints pop. Although my body is floppy, I undo my seatbelt quickly and stumble out of the car. At last, I'm here, in a place that I know. The salty air feels good in my nose, in my lungs—I breathe deeply several times, savoring it. When I get to the front door, I grab the doorknob and hold it tight while I turn, welcoming the smooth surface, cold under my palm. When I step inside I exclaim silently, celebrating—it smells like dinner's cooking.

"Mom?" I say. "Hello?" Footsteps have a different sound here, in this house. They sound old and hollow, the background noise to a different era. An era of candles, of kerosene lamps, of simple meals and lighthouses in the distance flickering. Each step wakes up a part of me that's been dormant since I was here last. It's been a year, maybe two. Back then Cece was a puppy and hadn't yet decided I was a stranger and should be barked at as much as possible. Today, though, I don't care that Cece's barking. I don't care if she tries to bite my shoes again. There's so much I can't care about right now because I'm home. I'm here with my mom. With family.

When I enter the kitchen, I find Mom setting the table. Oscar's at the sink, rinsing something under the faucet. He sees me and smiles, but his eyes don't crinkle at the sides like usual.

"Hey, Monkey Girl," he says. "You made it."

My mom drops the silverware on the table and rushes my way, her arms opening wide to pull me close. Being hugged by my mom makes me feel exposed and weak—she has a way of letting you know she knows what you're thinking—but it also makes me feel safe. Protected. Like she's making a shelter for me to rest and get well.

"I'm so glad you're here," she says, her cheek pressed against my temple. "So glad, I'm just so glad."

"Me too," I say. She squeezes tighter, swaying side to side, and sighs. I wait a bit before pulling away. When I look her in the eye, I can see she'll cry if she asks more questions.

"Marina," she says, "I want you to know—"

"Can we talk about it later?" I say, cutting her off. "I'm really tired, and it looks like you are too." I glance at the stove, where Oscar's pulling something from the oven. "What did you make? I'm starving."

"I bet you are. You guys had a long day." Mom pets my hair and, with her fingers, combs it over my shoulder. "There's enough lasagna here to feed a crowd." She glances over my shoulder toward the door. "Are the others here?"

Just as I nod the front door opens and voices tumble toward us. Max enters the kitchen, followed by Angela, Stan, and Sarah. My mom doesn't let go of my wrist, pulling me with her as she rushes to Max. She gives him a lengthy hug too and then starts crying. She grabs both me and my brother and pulls us toward her in a big group hug. With her tears and sniffling, it's so intense that I can't resist trying to lighten the mood by laughing. I pat her on the back, saying we're adventurous. We're daring. And we're hungry enough to be cannibals. At that she smiles and lets us go.

Introductions are made, since Angela's parents haven't met Mom and Oscar before. It's mildly chaotic, it being late and everyone being so tired from such a weird day. My brain is fried. Mom is emotional. Max's ribs hurt, probably. Angela and her folks are worn out from the last twenty-four hours, so it takes a second for us all to sit down, to be ready to eat and rest. Oscar improves the situation by shoving wine glasses into everyone's hands. The only disruption is Cece, who won't stop barking at Stan and Sarah. Oscar grabs her collar and tugs her to the kennel, locking her in to cool down. Not long into the night, the third bottle of wine goes empty, and Mom is opening a fourth one.

Stan rehashes the current state of the vacation house to Mom and Oscar. It's not clear what the damage is—it'll be several days, at least, before they let him return to the area. He and Sarah will have to go back up there to sort things out when the time comes. Max adds that he'll go along since his car is buried in that mess. His new car, of course, dammit. He just got the thing, and now look. It's stuck up there, probably messed up beyond repair, and who knows what it's going to cost him. But other than that, things are fine, and he's not worried. It could've been worse, a lot worse—Max glances at me, and I nod, knowing what he means.

After I finish eating, I start on dishes. The scraps don't come off entirely when I rinse the baking dish, so I fill it with water to let it soak. I load the dishwasher, and, while dropping the silverware into the bin, I wonder where my next cigarette will come from. I could borrow money from my mom, but that would make me feel bad. She might lecture me anyway. Maybe Oscar, then—he wouldn't care, not after a day like today—but all the stores and gas stations are closed anyway. Lame-ass beach towns. Everything shuts down way too early.

At least I find the deck of Uno cards. We always play Uno on the first night after settling in. We unload the car, set up the house, and eat dinner. After that, when we're ready to relax, we have more drinks or hot cocoa or dessert and hang out in the kitchen or the living room. Usually I wrap myself up in a blanket before we get the cards ready. But no matter what, we always play Uno—it's our beach tradition.

I talk Angela and Sarah into playing. Max says he'll only do one game, but after the first round he says he'll stay in. It's what he always does—he doesn't commit at first, but when I start winning, he can't help but keep playing, trying to beat me.

"I swear," Max says to Angela and Sarah both, "she cheats."

"That's silly," I say, laughing. "You can't cheat at Uno."

"Hell yeah, you can." He rearranges his cards and squints. "You totally cheat. I know it."

"Whatever. You're just whining because this is the one thing I'm better at than you." I look at everyone else around the table. Angela and Sarah's cards are bulging through their fingers, but I only have two cards left.

Angela picks through her cards, scrutinizing them. "I don't think you can cheat, even if you tried. It's not a game of skill," she says. "It has more to do with chance."

"Not true," Max says. He lays a card—a trick card—down on the pile and targets me, so I have to pick up more cards. Max snickers. "Take that, cheater."

"Yeah, yeah." I take another sip of wine and then take two cards from the draw pile. "It's about strategy, I'm telling you."

Max focuses on his cards. We go around a few more times, discarding, drawing, and making others draw cards. When Sarah discards into the pile, I have the opportunity I've been waiting for to make a final play. I slap a card onto the table, which leaves me with only one card. "Uno," I say.

Max scowls. He says he'll mess up my streak, that this is war. I tell him to bring it, man. The next time around, I play my last card, going out first.

"Take that," I say. "I win again." I fold my hands behind my head and lean back in my chair.

Angela starts laughing, teasing Max. Sarah asks what's going on—it's her first time playing, and she's still trying to get it.

"One more game." Max says. "You can't win the next one." He insists on shuffling the cards himself and dealing the next round. After we get started, Mom sets a bowl of party nuts by us. I munch nonstop, picking through the bowl and only taking the cashews. Sarah and I are both close to going out. Our turns pass, and I wonder if Sarah's going to win. She gets rid of another card, increasing her chances of beating me. I stay on my toes, hoping I'll get a chance to play my last cards. Of course I do. I win again.

"We should go to Vegas," Angela says, "and count cards. I'll be the scout, you know, the one picking the tables?"

"Hell yeah," I say. I pause to toss more cashews into my mouth. "I'll wear a wig, and we'll all have disguises and code names for everything." I swallow and wash it down with wine. I say to Max, "You can be the getaway driver. We'll need one."

"You'll have to buy me a car first. Because mine's kind of buried right now."

"Yeah, yeah," I say. "You're getting greedy already. First you can't stand me winning, and now you want a car." I sigh and roll my eyes. "I see how it is."

"Come on, why not? Think of it as an investment, a business expense."

I tell him we'll see about that. If I'm going to be a professional gambler, then I need to get to Vegas first and start winning. Oscar, who's sitting on the couch in the living room, turns to us from the TV. "Can I have a car too?" he says. "Mine's falling apart."

"Only if you want to be our driver. This is a business venture, dude," I say to Oscar. I gather the cards and shuffle them, then cut the deck and shuffle again. "We ought to get on this card-counting business, like, right now."

"Hell yeah," Angela says. "I want a trip to the Bahamas."

"Hey, Momma...Mom?" I say, getting her attention. I wait for her to look up from her book. She asks what is it. I say we're having an important conversation. She needs to decide what kind of car she wants. Also, can she be a backup getaway driver? Or maybe our makeup artist—that would be a better job for her.

"You know," she says slowly, her eyes searching the ceiling, "I'd rather have a yacht. Yeah, I'll do the job for a boat. If Oscar's getting a car, what do I need one for? I'd rather hang out in the sun all day and drink margaritas."

Counting cards could be a sweet way to make a living. I can see it: Mom, Max, Oscar, Angela, and me, each of us doing our part. We'd be a team, a tight-knit family working in a high-stakes business, drafting plans of attack, exit strategies, and contingency plans over dinner. Angela and I would work the tables—she'd be good at that, schmoozing the blackjack dealers, distracting them while I work the game. Mom could be an extra player, if we need one, and Max could be an organizer, the one keeping the plan on track. Oscar would do something—maybe be the driver—whatever. You always need an extra guy. And after arriving at the casino and checking into our room, we'd set up shop. On the vanity there'd be the arsenal of makeup supplies, brushes and palettes of eye shadows and blushes. Laid out on the bed would be shimmery gowns in silver, blush, and midnight blue, with matching shoes, necklaces, sparkly earrings, and handbags that are just big enough to hold lipstick and a cell phone. I'd know how to walk in stilettos and would be an expert at putting on false lashes. Maybe I'd draw on a fake beauty mark—that would be fun—and paint my lips bright red. Maybe I'd go blonde.

And after cashing in, after doing the job, we'd retreat to our room to celebrate and count our winnings, dividing the money among ourselves while we give each other high fives and clink wine glasses together, toasting to a job well-done. I'd throw my money in the air, letting it rain on the bed.

I laugh to myself, thinking how fun that could be. Even if I don't become an ultra-successful card counter with my family as my crew, at least I feel good about things again. Optimistic, even. Like things might be okay, because I haven't lost anyone else.

I want to keep it that way.

Not long after the last game of Uno, everyone else gets ready for bed. Oscar turns off the TV, and Mom gets me the spare blankets from the linen closet. She insists we pull the bed out of the fold-out couch because it'll be more comfortable. I tell her it's fine, I'll just sleep on the couch as it is. I prefer not to struggle with the pull-out frame because it weighs a ton and screeches like a rusty gate. She finally says okay and leaves it alone. Before she goes to bed, she gives me a hug and kiss goodnight.

While lying on the couch, huddled under two thick blankets, I go through what's happened. There was the party, then the woman at the bar. Then there was the mountain and finding Max, going to the hospital, and then going shopping afterward. I met that man in the Village who creeped me out, and the whole situation at the border—I almost lost it at that point. If it weren't for Angela smoothing things over, I don't know how I would've gotten out of that.

Having gone through all of those things has sucked the energy right out of me. I'm washed out, burnt out, and I don't know how much more I can handle. The fact that I haven't slept since yesterday doesn't help.

Even though the last day has been a marathon—a nightmare, really—I'm surprised that I feel glad. Not glad that all the terrible stuff happened or the part I played in causing it, but about tonight. About overeating and visiting and drinking too much wine and schooling everyone at Uno. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt. I had to grip the back of the chair and slouch, cradling my abdomen, waiting for the cramping to pass. When was the last time I laughed like that? I don't know, because it's been so long that I've felt good, like I belong in my life.

With my eyes closed I wait for my thoughts to dissolve, to break apart. But it doesn't happen—I can't sleep. And I want a cigarette. But I know that's not possible right now, so I turn on the TV and turn down the volume so as not to wake anyone. I settle on a late-night show hosted by some guy I've never seen before. After each joke he makes a crooked face, only smiling with half his mouth. Like a sleazebag in a dive bar.

Another hour passes, and I still can't sleep. Realizing I've passed the threshold of tiredness, I slink out of bed and find my shoes. Mom's raincoat is on the rack by the door, so I put it on before tiptoeing outside.

I walk down the street, making my way to the beach. A thousand times I've walked this route, passing the red house on the corner and the condo with the dinky playground. Next to the convenience store there's the fire hydrant, the one we used to race to when we were kids. As soon as we left the house, we sprinted, running as fast as we could to the fire hydrant. Whoever touched it first was the winner. Of course, Max won most of the time, but sometimes I won. Sometimes Rachel. Even though I'm not a kid anymore and haven't played that game in years, I still brush my fingers across its cold, grimy surface.

I pass under a streetlight and look at the wet asphalt, glimmering under the light's yellow glow. Although the next streetlight is out, there's enough light for me to see where I'm going, and in the next block, I come up to the trailhead. They replaced the sign a few years ago because the old one had started to fade. It still feels new, the replacement sign, and foreign in some way. Maybe because it's a little different from the first one. Maybe because it's not the one I grew up with—it's not part of my memory of this place.

With one hand I pull my hood over my head, securing it around my face to keep my hair from whipping in the wind. I take off my shoes and carry them. Under my toes, the sand is chalky, cold, cleansing, and I'm careful to avoid the razor-sharp clumps of beach grass as best I can in the dark.

The drizzly rain drops make tiny thuds against my jacket, and the wind is stronger here than at the house. My hair sneaks out of my hood, blowing across my face, and I have to wipe it away. Although it's chilly and windy, I don't mind: walking feels good.

For a while I walk along the water. The wet sand is firm and easy to walk across, and I can barely hear the sound of my feet hitting the ground because of the ocean's dull rumbling. Down the shoreline, the lighthouse, a bright stud on a dark backdrop, gives me a sense of direction and distance. It can't be more than a mile or two away. Rain clouds cover the sky, making it hard to see, but from the security lights of the beachside houses dotting the shore, there's enough light to make out the lay of the sand and tide.

I don't want to stop walking. I can see why Melinda said she went hiking a lot after her mother died. Maybe I should go hiking more often, because it is calming. There are lots of good places to hike near home; I should check them out. Maybe I could make a goal of trekking somewhere, of crossing some really ridiculous distance by foot. Like the Pacific Crest Trail? Well, maybe someday.

With my free hand I reach into my sweatshirt pocket, searching for the locket. All day I've been checking on it, making sure it's there, though I know I couldn't lose it if I tried. If anything, it's the one keeping track of me. It's making sure I don't get out of sight, that I don't stray too far.

My thumb slides across the surface of the locket. It's warm. I want to throw it in the ocean, to return it to where it came from. It would feel good, the throwing part, the small splashing sound it would make as it pierced the water. I could walk away, go back home, and put all this behind me. That would be ideal—it's what I want. But it won't be that simple, I know.

It's time to do this. Now.

I pull my fist from my pocket. The back of my hand is glowing again. I shouldn't be surprised, though I am. I don't know how you can get used to something like that, especially when you know what it means.

I focus on the ocean, on the horizon that's out there but hard to see in the darkness. It's hard to pinpoint that line, that edge where the water ends and the sky begins. Just as hard as spotting the boundary between sleep and waking: it's there, but where exactly is hard to say.

The longer I stare at the ocean, the less I can see it clearly. Maybe I've been up for too long. After all, I haven't slept in almost two days. Could my eyes be playing tricks on me? How tired am I? I don't feel weak enough to faint, but after all, anything is possible, and I am exhausted—I should sit down. Rest a bit.

I look around, searching for a driftwood pile or some other cover nearby, but don't see anything good. I keep looking, squinting in the dark, but have trouble making out my surroundings. In fact, I can't see anything at all. Not the waves rolling onto the sand. Not the houses overlooking the ocean, and not even the lighthouse down the way. Everything is muddled together, a big smear.

With my vision clouded, I don't know what to think. I start to panic, wondering if I'll ever find my way back, whether or not I'll make it to sunrise. But when my nerves ramp up, a weight presses down on my body, pushing with firm hands for me to be still, to stop struggling.

I close my eyes and focus on breathing. The air passes through my nostrils, past my throat, into my lungs. It calms me, the air itself. When I ease my eyelids apart, I see the air around me stirring, moving with my breaths. It's cloudy, murky air. Nothing more than fog.

I breathe the fog, the ocean breeze. I fill my lungs with fresh air, and it feels as if the fog is cleansing all the tiny spaces inside my body. It's funny: I didn't think you could feel fog, that it had a touchable quality to it. But it does. And it feels amazing.

I let out a deep, cleansing breath, and my body relaxes. I feel good, and happy. Holding out my arms from my sides, I spin like a propeller, pivoting on the balls of my feet. Around me the hazy air separates, becoming wispy tendrils that hang off my fingertips. When I stop spinning, the current of the foggy air slows down but continues to flow, circling me.

I stay still, watching the murky air course around me. It changes, though: the currents coil around each other, becoming knots that grow larger and brighter. When they become orbs floating in the air, orbiting around me, I smile. They're so beautiful, sailing in the air like that. I want to celebrate, to spin around and gather up them all. I want to fly away with them and never be in the dark again.

Without noise, the orbs pop. They burst. They explode around me like silent fireworks, showering small, glittery puffs that fall toward the ground like feathers. I drop my shoes when I try to catch the floating puffs before they vanish. One of them rests on the water like a tiny lantern setting sail in the night. I steady myself, watching it, then sprint to catch it. When I cut through the water, the icy coldness stings my feet, but I catch the puff.

I cradle the milky puff between my palms. I smile, admiring its chalky glow. When I blow on it, the surface flakes away, becoming glittery dust that lands on the waves. I want to cry when the phosphorescence spreads across the water—it's so beautiful.

I hear my name called, but I ignore it. I want to watch the water.

_Marina,_ she says. _Marina bo-bina_.

I turn to see Rachel standing behind me, watching the water. I'm not surprised. Not really.

_It's beautiful, isn't it?_ I say to her.

She nods and smiles. Her lips part, showing her teeth—a big smile. A real smile.

_I love it,_ she says. _It's really pretty._

Eyeing Rachel standing by the water, admiring the view with me, I think about how much I've missed her. All the places she used to be are now scarred, blighted. They've become noticeable gaps, like missing teeth that I can't stop tonguing. I hold out my hand, the one that's glowing, and admire the intricate lines of the moonlit scar.

_You've got one more to use, you know that?_ Rachel says to me.

_Yeah?_ I say. _Is that right?_

_Of course it is. Would I lie to you?_

I snort and roll my eyes.

_Oh, hush up,_ Rachel says, grumbling. _I wouldn't do that—you should know that by now._

_No?_ I say. _It's just everything else you lie about._

Rachel glares at me, and I try not let my face show how I'm feeling, what I'm thinking. I shove my hands into my pockets and hunch forward. It's been easy to forget how awful she can be, how snarky she acts at times. It's been easy to forget that she's not perfect—that she _wasn't_ perfect, even if I wanted her to be.

The ocean's drumming, the waves slapping sand and rocks, is a far-off thing, but I know it's out there. I know that's where the rest of the world is, but here I'm stuck, trapped inside this bubble of stagnation, of listlessness. And it's because of Rachel that I don't want to leave, because I've been here so long—it's here where I can feel her presence. This is the only place where it feels like we're still connected.

_Do you remember the last time we came to the beach?_ I say to her. _We went to Seaside that time, with Pamela. Remember? Her coworker offered her a night at that condo—_

_Yeah, I do,_ she says. Rachel squints at something far off then smiles. _We just got into the car and left,_ she says, _and Pamela wouldn't stop talking about her ex, how he had a new girlfriend and she didn't like it. Like, what are you supposed to do?_ _Admire the person who's replacing you?_ Rachel says.

_It drives me nuts how Pamela doesn't look at you when she's talking,_ I say. _Instead, she just peers at you through the corner of her eye._ I demonstrate by making a squinty stink-eyed face.

Rachel giggles. _That's exactly what she does_.

_And remember,_ I say, _how you and I talked about wanting to run a salon someday? How that would be fun?_

I wait for Rachel to say something but then decide to break the silence myself.

_I'm going to do it,_ I say, _or at least try to._ _I don't know how far I'll get or if it'll turn out like I want, but I'm going to beauty school. I haven't told Mom yet, but she'll have to be fine with it...._

I ramble, telling her about the school where I enrolled, when I start and all. At some point I slow down and then stop talking because Rachel has turned away. She starts walking down the beach with her back to me.

The urge to yell at her, to say something about how mean she is, how inappropriately she's behaving, is strong, but the anger shrinks in my throat. The air from my lungs evaporates, coming out of my mouth in a pathetic huff that makes me go limp, and I stand there, swaying, with the water biting my ankles.

I look at my feet. When the water covers them, it looks like my legs don't extend past my anklebones. They are only nubs, posts rising out of dark ink. But the water clears, and I can see my toes again. I wiggle them, feeling the muscles ache from the cold.

I look around for Rachel. She's standing twenty yards away, staring at the water, and I try to make out the features that should be there, the ones that define her in pictures, the ones that are fading in my memories, even though I can't see much from where I'm standing. There's the outline of her square chin, and her coarse, dark hair—it should be dancing in the wind, the way it's blowing out here. Then there's her smile. Her cheeks scrunch up, creasing the corners of her eyes. It's a good smile: she looks pretty when she smiles.

It's not until I see her standing there on the shore that I realize she's lost to me forever—and I can't stay anymore. Something has to bend, to fray at the edges. It has to change, and if it doesn't, then I'll be lost too.

I hate the fact that I have to leave, to go away from this place. That I have to leave Rachel. I hate it so much, but know I have to. I want to vomit. I want to cry. But I can't—I'm too weak to do any of it, so I stand there, loitering with my eyes half closed, trained on the sand.

Should I tell her good-bye? Or walk away? Should I say anything before I go? Although the next step is not yet clear, I see the path now, the one leading me away from her, and it breaks my heart.

I withdraw the locket from my pocket. Even in the darkness, it's easy to see, to make out and admire. Even though it scares the shit out of me, I still find myself in awe of its strange elegance. I switch hands, transferring it from one palm to the next, while I think about what it means, about how powerful it is.

I could have anything I want. I could change something. I could wish for money, for a perfect man, for perfect health, or for a private island, surrounded by coral reefs. I could wish for my mom to be understanding or for my dad to have never left. I could wish for my dream job, a nice house, or a happier life. Anything I want is only a breath away. If I asked, I could even have my sister back. But would that make anything better? And if it did, what would it cost? Would it even be worth it? Because the last time I made a wish, I was sloppy; someone I care about almost died. Hell, _I_ almost died. That's what happens when you're dealing with something you don't understand: there's room for unforeseen consequences. More problems. It's risky to trust a wish completely, to put faith in it. I can't be careless. I'd need to think things through.

When I look up again, Rachel has ventured closer. I see her gaze focused on me. The corner of her mouth flinches up into a half smile, a reluctant display. The pull hurts, the one wrenching me to go to her, to ask all the questions I have. Why did she leave us? Why did she leave me alone? Why didn't she tell anyone how badly she was hurting? Didn't she care how bad it would hurt us, taking herself away like that? If she knew how miserable it was to feel the world collapse, to feel robbed, to ask yourself questions that have no answers other than ones leading to more questions, to hurt so bad that your chest implodes, to become a shell, wallowing without direction, while the rest of the world moves on, forgetting—would she still have done it? Would she change?

Questions. Nothing but questions that have haunted me while I'm awake, while I dream. They've taken on a life of their own, growing strong, coiling around my thoughts. They've been hard to ignore and harder to cut down, because all I've hoped for is some kind of clarity, some kind of resolution. An answer to put the doubts and suspicions to rest. Was it just depression? Was she a victim of a perfect storm, a deadly combination of circumstances? Was there something wrong with her, something no amount of help could fix? No matter what I've done, no matter how many explanations I've considered, I've gotten nowhere. I've made no progress toward understanding why she did it, even though part of me still wants to.

That part of me that doesn't want to give up on Rachel keeps begging, demanding that I not quit now. There's an opportunity before me: I could have my sister again.

But immediately the questions return, spinning new questions in their wake: the why's and how's and what if's popping up in rapid succession. Would she be the same person, or would she be someone else? How would I handle it? Could I rewrite everyone's memories, erasing her death? Would that work? What about for Rachel—would she know that she died? Would I confront her about it? What would she say? How would I know that Rachel wouldn't kill herself again? I couldn't handle going through that a second time.

The fact is, I don't know that getting her back would fix anything, how it would make things right. Even if Rachel could learn what she caused, if she could understand what she did to us—to me—I don't know how I could ever trust her again.

Taking a deep breath, I visualize the air cleansing me from the inside out. I see it carrying away all of the junk, hauling off the garbage, making me lighter. Making me ready for what I have to do next, because I'll need to get my bearings in order to get through with it.

The gray man is there in the distance, a dim figure waiting in the shadows. How long he's been there, I don't know, but I'm not surprised to see him.

I walk toward him, where he's standing near the water's edge, and for once, I take in the entire sight of him: the alien color of his skin, the piercing heat of his eyes, the enormity of his presence. It's like standing in the shadow of a great boulder on a cliff, one about to roll down and crush you at any moment.

_Hello_ , I say to him. _We're going to do this thing again, right?_

The gray man stands there, peering at me. He breathes heavily. It almost sounds like a growl. A rumble. I can feel it in my chest.

_I know you'll grant me one more favor, and then, after that, we're through. It'll be over, yes?_

He doesn't answer but instead squints at me. I look away from him, down at my hand. Both sides are aglow, and when I grab the locket from my pocket, the glow intensifies. My hand feels hot.

_You know, this thing,_ I say to him, holding up the locket, _is really powerful. So powerful that I think it's dangerous,_ I say. _And you? I appreciate how powerful, how generous you are—please don't think I'm not grateful for the gifts you've offered me._ I look down at the locket and sigh. My body feels like lead, and I review my decision one more time. Looking up at the gray man, I know I'm making the right choice.

_But the thing is,_ I say, _I don't want any quick fixes in my life. No Band-Aids. And even though I could have anything I wanted, I don't want it handed to me._ My voice as thin as paper, but I continue.

_I don't want anything. Not from you, not from anybody. And even though I won't get a chance like this again, I'm going to be okay with that._

Although I realize I'm talking more for my sake than his, it doesn't matter, because turning my thoughts into words makes the facts become real. They become elements of truth, things I can't deny. And I use them to prop me upright, to keep from backsliding.

I look at the locket and cup my hand around it, shielding it from the wind. I hunch forward, whispering to the thing as if it had tiny ears. I choose the words carefully, saying them slowly, and though I know what I say, I don't hear it. I don't hear that I wish for nobody to find the locket ever again—I want it to sink to the bottom of the ocean, never to be found or used or manipulated by any living or nonliving thing. I am the last person it will ever see.

I don't know what to expect when my words are completed, when my favor has been asked. I don't know what to expect when I put an end to it all—I don't know what, if anything, lies beyond the other side of this moment.

But that's when the wind stops completely.

I'd forgotten about the wind until the loose strands of hair waving around my face fall flat onto my shoulders. The interruption of the wind's steady pressure makes me stumble, and I have to readjust my footing. Even the rumble of the ocean has died down, its absence filling my ears with stuffy silence.

In the sudden stillness I watch the locket float upward, lifting itself from my hands. It climbs higher and higher in the air, invisible wings carrying it away, toward the gray man loitering near the water. My body becomes clumsy and dense; I couldn't back away or cover my eyes if I wanted to.

I watch it happen: the locket floating toward the gray man, and him, feeling the pull toward it. The force tying them together is a strong thing. A magnetic thing. Something stronger than gravity.

When they are close together, I see his face, his eyes. They're blazing, angry, and hot. I swallow hard. Can he do anything to me? Can he hurt me? I wonder if I'm going to die before I see the locket shrink his body, before I watch it drink him up.

Instead, though, the gray man fades away, becoming a wisp of smoke. The locket becomes harder to see as the glow lessens. It becomes so dull that I don't know if the locket is there anymore, if it fell into the water or if it dissolved in the air.

It's just me and the ocean again. Me and the water.

Is it over? Really, is everything done now? My heart starts beating again, the blood thudding in my ears. My lips part to breathe, though I'm careful to not move anything else: I don't want to disturb the peace. I don't want to knock it off balance, make it tumble over and break.

Finally, when it feels like the moment's passed, I relax my shoulders. I let out a deep breath. The air is crisp, clean. It feels good, and I breathe again.

But then I'm knocked off my feet.

The sound of seagulls is calming, unless they're squawking in your ear. When one of them nips my jacket, I turn over and shoo them away. I protect my head from the flurry of wings, but the frenzy dissipates when the birds have flown away.

I'm cold and feel gritty. My feet and fingers are frozen, so I sit up and curl them under my legs. My shoes are gone, and my sweatpants are soggy from the damp air. There's sand in my hair and in my mouth. At least I have a jacket on. Mom's jacket. I hope she doesn't care too much that it's dirty. At least the sand is pretty easy to brush off.

I look up and down the beach and out across the water. I've been here so many times. I've partied around sunset bonfires and shared bottles of whiskey. I slept with a guy once behind a pile of driftwood. I've flown kites and built sandcastles and buried people. I've been buried myself, even. I didn't like it much because I was worried about the worms, the ones that live in wet sand, and about the biting water flies that live in warm puddles. But one thing I've never done out here is watch the sunrise.

The ocean is so big—you can see that in the predawn light. You can see its flat surface strung taut between the sandy shore and the straight, sharp line of the western horizon. The sheer broadness of it is overwhelming: nothing but miles and miles of open water, of grayness.

Inland, away from the shore, the eastern mountains are quiet and patient as they wait for the sun to come, to step onto their shoulders and climb through the clouds. Along the eastern horizon the sky changes from pink to orange to yellow—and as the sun arrives, the clouds look more purple and the ocean more blue.

Bringing my knees to my chest, I watch the sunrise, glancing directly into the brightest part. You're not supposed to look directly at the sun, but I can't help myself. It's so beautiful. So peaceful. Everything about the sunrise is amazing, and my heart grows big while I watch it happen.

My eyes fill up with tears as the words pass my lips. They hang in the air, lingering like morning mist above the dewy beach. "Rachel is dead," I say out loud, feeling the words vibrate in my throat, "because she slit her wrists and bled."

I cling to the words, to the truth that I revisit every morning. It hurts—it'll never stop hurting, I know—but it'll get better. Because off in the distance, along the dark, dense edge of the world where it's gray and muddled and lonely, the sun will come up. And it will bring color.

# Acknowledgments

The world is a better place when you acknowledge the good things people do for you, and I'm fortunate to have had so much help and support.

First of all, I'm only where I am today because of the terrific people surrounding me. Thank you, friends and family, for making my life amazing. It's because of you that I have a wonderful, fulfilling existence and am able to devote energy to something as life-consuming as writing.

I feel that I can never thank my father enough; although a single parent for most of my childhood, he filled the shoes of two people—sometimes three. I give credit to him as well as to the teachers, professors, and coaches who provided me with the challenging lessons, relentless encouragement, and critical tools needed to build a solid personal foundation and pursue the things that make me happy.

I want to thank my son for being easy on me. Thanks for being healthy, for letting me have an easy pregnancy, and for being an easy baby. And thanks a million for giving me enough time to send my line-edited manuscript to my editor right before leaving for the hospital—that was very considerate, little guy.

My husband has been incredibly patient and kind while supporting me through this process. It's not easy to let your wife sit in a dark room for hours upon hours, for days upon days—for a very long time—while you aren't allowed to interrupt. Or ask questions about what she is writing. Thank you so, so much for giving me exactly what I needed.

Thank you to the wonderful folks at Indigo who helped me accomplish this project. Vinnie Kinsella, thank you for turning this story into an actual book while helping me navigate the book world—it's new and big, and I'm glad you know so much about it. Susan DeFreitas, thank you for helping me comb through these pages, tugging out the wrong words and smoothing over the rough parts (of which there were many). Only with your meticulous feedback and encouraging words was I was able to mend and shape these raw pieces into a novel.

And last, but very far from least, thank you, reader. Thank you for reading and supporting my work. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

## Contents

  1. Cover Page
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Contents
  5. Chapter 1
  6. Chapter 2
  7. Chapter 3
  8. Chapter 4
  9. Chapter 5
  10. Chapter 6
  11. Chapter 7
  12. Chapter 8
  13. Chapter 9
  14. Chapter 10
  15. Chapter 11
  16. Chapter 12
  17. Chapter 13
  18. Chapter 14
  19. Chapter 15
  20. Chapter 16
  21. Chapter 17
  22. Acknowledgments

# Guide

  1. Cover
  2. Begin Reading

