“I’ll pick you up around five then, okay?”

“Sounds great,” I say, eager to get off the phone and further examine the package. “Thank you.”

“And Amelia?” His voice loses a little of its sunshine. “Whatever you need, remember? Just let us know.”

I stop thinking about the package, my brain flicking to last week’s first biweekly Amelia-and-the-Williams “family dinner.”

What I need—who I need—was devastatingly absent from the table.

“Thank you, Mark,” I say again.

“Because it’s … it’s hard enough, hon. It’s hard enough going through what you’re going through. Make sure you’re eating, okay? Eat well, Amelia. Make sure you eat lunch, okay?”

“Sure thing,” I say. “See you tonight.”

I make myself obey, though this package is the first thing I’ve been remotely distracted by since Jenna’s funeral. I promise myself I can examine its every corner if I stop by the grocery store and buy something to make Mom and me for lunch.

I make spaghetti and canned sauce—it’s the only thing I know how to cook besides grilled cheese—and sprinkle enough salt in the water to fill the sea. I need it to boil faster, need to go to my room and shut the door and consider the hundreds of possibilities for this little book-shaped package.

I need to escape again.

Mom doesn’t look up when I set a steaming bowl of spaghetti on the little table next to her recliner. I have to move an ashtray and an empty box of wine to make room. She’s watching some talk show where the hosts pick live audience members to compete in stupid games to earn gift cards.

She’s between jobs again. The gas station she worked at was bought out by a chain and they laid off most of the existing employees. She’s been home since just before Jenna died, and I can’t stand it. The TV is always, always on.

“I made spaghetti,” I say.

She nods as the TV audience bursts into hysterical screams of laughter.

“I’ll be in my room if you need me,” I tell her.

I slurp spaghetti cross-legged on my bed, staring at the package in front of me and telling myself that as soon as I’m done eating, I can tear into it. I am trying my best to make this moment last, to savor each second that goes by where something other than Jenna’s death is competing for my attention.

But then I feel guilty for wishing Jenna away and open the package before I’ve eaten half the noodles.

I don’t try and stifle my awed gasp.