“People don’t always die from overdoses. Some people live and it’s the wake-up call they need to get clean,” Isla says. I don’t ask how she knows this. If I could, I’d erase this information from her brain. I hate that my sister so casually tosses off the words die and clean. That this is the stuff she googles late at night when she can’t sleep, or when she’s not busy googling words like honest services fraud and mail fraud and felony vs. misdemeanor.

“Yeah,” I say.

“He texted me yesterday. And I didn’t write back. I should have written him back.” She chews on the ends of her hair, like she’s munching on a corn cob.

“What’d he say?” I ask.

“Nothing really. What’s up? We talk sometimes, so…”

“You and Hudson talk?” This shouldn’t surprise me. Isla and Hudson have always had a bond I’ve never quite understood. Still, for a moment, I feel excluded and sad. Why could I never figure out how to pin Hudson down?

“I mean, we text more than talk. He checks in on me. He might be a mess, but he’s still our brother.” I don’t add in my usual disclaimer, half brother, because that seems wrong when we don’t know if he’s going to be okay. “I shouldn’t have stolen his phone. He got a new one like the next day anyway.”

“Aren’t you mad at him?” I ask. “Because I am. At Mom too. I’m mad at the whole world.”

For a second, I let the rage flow through me, and it feels empowering, as if I’ve been given an extra blood supply. I want to punch the wall and knock over the magazines neatly stacked on the side table with titles like Modern Health and 250 Easy Instant Pot Recipes. I want to hulk out and find that random bleeding lady a freaking bed. Also a pillow.

I want to see that Hudson’s okay, and then I want to pinch his side handles, like he used to do to me when we were kids, so tight they leave red marks, and then drag him to some magical rehab place he hasn’t tried yet.

I want to show up at Shola’s door with a frozen yogurt and two spoons and beg for forgiveness.

I want to buy Cesar ice cream and get his mom a green card.

I want to stop being such a goddamn monster.

“Addiction is a disease, Chlo. Like cancer. You wouldn’t be mad at him if he had cancer.”

“I know,” I say. “Still.”