This isn’t a lie. Dad prefers it when it’s quiet outside. He shops when the supermarket is empty. He doesn’t like crowds or conversations. Three times a week, he works night shifts in a factory, not because he has to but because we all need to escape sometimes.

I hope YouTube people are too busy to visit normal people’s houses just to get a signature. I hope they send the paperwork and I can forge Dad’s scribble and have more time to wear him down.

But without a pause, Adrian says, “No problem. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Shit.

Before he hangs up, he says, “We have high hopes for you, Jessica.”

I’m glad someone does.

Chapter 6

Some broken people look fine from the outside, but not my dad. He wears his heartbreak like a second skin, his eyes gray and heavy, his grief shouting over everything else.

“Hey,” I say.

He nods and puts his lips together in his best attempt at a smile.

“I have something to ask.”

He reaches for the remote and mutes the TV.

I take a deep breath, almost chicken out, then say, “I’ve applied for a show. It’s called The Eye.”

He sighs and says, “Okay.”

“It’s on YouTube. I’ll be filming my life, and they need your permission.”

He stares me down, because there’s only so long I can look into his eyes before I want to cry.

“You’ll be filming your life?”

I nod.

“And who will be watching?”

“I don’t know. Whoever wants to.”

“No.”

He unmutes the TV, and the sound makes me jump, drowning out the reply I’m planning in my head.

But I say it anyway, a shortened version, a three-word battle cry. “It’s for Mom.”

He stares at me, and this time, I don’t look away.

I don’t care if I cry. I don’t care if, when I look long enough, I see the dad he used to be, mixed with the sadness he fights so hard to contain. I stare until my eyes are burning and I see Dad’s no crumble in his mouth.

He turns off the TV, breathes deeply, and says, “Tell me more.”

Chapter 7

If I concentrate, I can still hear Mom’s laughter, and if I close my eyes, I can picture Dad’s smile, the real one, the one that could win an argument with a single flash. If I really focus, I can go back to certain moments, ones that didn’t feel special at the time but are now all I have.

Mom would leave notes around the house for Dad to find: tiny reminders of how much she loved him. Once, a slip of paper fell into my bowl along with my cereal, and when I asked Mom what it said, she whispered, “Your dad can read it to you when he finds it.”