Now, I turn my splinted wrist back and forth to make sure it’s supported as well as it can be. The splints are nothing like a cast. Not as stable, but not as itchy either. The bandages are actually quite soft, though the sticks hold my wrist and hand locked. Like the cast, they will prevent me from doing my work. I couldn’t write with a broken wrist, and I certainly can’t dig holes with one.

I still don’t want to practice forgiveness.

I wonder how Diana is doing. If she’s—how she’s doing. When my parents kicked me out, I begged her to let me crash in her spare room for a few nights. She and I were best friends since our first communion, and we planned to be friends forever. We remained that way until she became concertmaster of St. Agnes’s orchestra and fell in with the popular crowd at school—and I couldn’t be who she wanted me to be anymore.

She closed the door on me too. I wonder if she’s thought of me at all, these past few months.

I can’t wish her well, but when I think of ten-year-old Di, on her black-and-green skateboard…I hope she’s safe.

* * *

I stay in for a full day, and then I drag myself out of bed, though I have no idea what to do. My hand throbs, my head’s still fuzzy, and the pain in my wrist is a dull but constant ache. I grab one of the few Tylenols that Mackenzi brought me when she also brought in dinner last night.

I stumble out of the room and nearly trip over Mackenzi, who for some absurd reason still sits outside. She looks up, dark circles under her eyes. Has she slept here? Has she been here the entire night, like my own personal guard? If not Nia or Logan, I would expect Grace to be here. Or one of the gardeners. Not her. And not like this either; with winter setting in, the rooms and hallways are getting colder.

Out of habit, I reach out a hand, then grunt when another flash of pain stabs through me. “Ouch.”

Mackenzi pushes herself to her feet. “Don’t worry, I—” She yawns. “I’m awake. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

I wrap one arm around my waist. “Why?” Mackenzi has never once spoken to me before. If there weren’t so few of us left, she probably wouldn’t have a clue who I am.

“Because you were hurt.” She narrows her eyes. “Because Josie hurt you.”

The slight inflection in her voice hints of trouble. At least she makes it clear that I shouldn’t trust her. While she keeps her distance, she doesn’t flinch away from me. She sets her jaw and waits for me to answer.

“I’m not okay,” I snap. I can’t remember ever having said those words before to anyone, not since that conversation with Father Michael. It makes me feel brittle. I don’t like it. “I’m hurt and I’m lost, and unless you want to take over tending graves, I’m not sure what you can do to make it better.”