“Let’s go.” I nudge her shoulder and then sigh, trying one more time. The chances of me getting her to her bedroom on my own are laughable if she’s dead weight. “Mom,” I say louder, shorter. “Rebecca.”

“What,” she grunts.

“I need you to get up.”

She slowly brings her face toward me and licks her lips. But they’re not just dry. The bottom one’s busted open. It matches the swelling and split skin on her brow bone.

“He hits you in the face now.”

Not a question. No shock. Just a fact.

As far back as I remember, all but two men she brought into our lives hit her. Roman being one, and the other an Army vet we crashed with for a few months. My dad didn’t either, but they weren’t together by the time I was born. She’d been a functional addict then—she’s even bragged about barely using while pregnant. She was functional when she met Daniel, too, working for an insurance company and buying us essentials before her fix. But like every other time, it didn’t last.

Just like him being careful not to hit her in the face didn’t last.

I help her up, and she clutches the banister. The redness on the inside of her elbow catches my eye, fueling my suspicions she’s spiraled past only pills.

We make it to the top before I’m hauling most of her weight into their room. She does what she couldn’t on the stairs and crawls into bed.

“I’m going to grab what I need to try and clean this up,” I tell her.

The light’s still off, and on my way to flip the switch, she says, “Remi?”

“Yeah, Mom?” I glance at the lump on the comforter.

“Get the fuck out.”

I huff a laugh, no more surprised than I was over her face. “Right.”

But I still toss a blanket at her and then shut the door behind me. Honestly, she saved me from stumbling onto her stash and going from knowing to seeing.

Ready to block out the world, I secure the pillows at the bottom of my bedroom door and lock it. A text came through while I was with Roman. I didn’t need to check to know the sender. I toss my pink skeleton on the dresser, smiling at the notification with Foster’s name.

Here. It’s the sky. Not that you deserve it.

I laugh and play the video of him panning across the Prague skyline from high up. He doesn’t say anything, but a soft bass beat plays in the background while he shows me a new perspective of the city, twinkling below and beyond. He must spin in a circle because the view’s interrupted by a dark rooftop. A few pieces of wicker furniture sit empty, and what looks like a bar that’s not being used.