Then, as I sat down on the edge of the table, staring at her, she suddenly sat bolt upright, and the fear that raced over her expression surprised me. I hadn’t thought she was capable of that kind of vulnerability … but then, she’d been born here, just as I’d been, and having strangers walk in on you asleep was rarely good.

Monica stared at me blankly, without recognition, for about two seconds, and then awareness overtook alarm, and she just looked annoyed. And angry. “Collins,” she said, and ran her fingers through her hair, as if getting it settled was her first priority. “God, there’s a new thing called knocking—look into it. If you’re going to get all stalkery over me saving your life today, please don’t. It wasn’t my idea in the first place. Though if you want to dump your Playskool girlfriend, I might be persuaded to throw you a boner.” She smiled at me, suddenly all inappropriate hormones and insanity.

I didn’t know how to do this. The responsibility felt heavy and harsh, because I was about to totally destroy her world. I knew how it felt, and yeah, there was a certain justice to it, not denying that, but I found that I couldn’t take any real joy, either. I just waited her out, until she was silent, frowning at me, clearly made uneasy by my lack of reaction.

And then I said, very quietly, “Monica, I have to tell you something. It’s bad.”

She wasn’t stupid, and about one second after I said it, I saw the awful light start to dawn. “What happened?” she asked, and folded her arms together over her stomach. I remembered how that felt, the drop off the edge of the earth. “Is—is it my mom?” Because, I realized, news that her mother was dead, even a mother who no longer even spoke to or recognized her own kids, was the best-case scenario she could think of now.

“No,” I said. Maybe I should have been taunting her, I don’t know; maybe I’d have been fully within my rights to do it. But suddenly all I wanted out of this was to be kind, and to be quick, and to be out. I wanted to hold Claire, and forget how fragile we all were, just for a moment. “No, it’s not your mom. I’m sorry. It’s Richard.”

“He’s hurt,” she said, and threw the blanket back. She was wearing sweatpants and a tank top, like a normal girl, and she reached for a pair of flat shoes. Her hands were trembling. “Is he here? Can I see him? He’s going to be okay, right? God, these shoes don’t even match, but I couldn’t bring everything ….”

“No,” I said, “he’s not going to be okay.” She stopped in the act of sliding one shoe on, but she didn’t look up. After that hesitation, she finished, and donned the other shoe, and stood up. I stood too, not sure what to do now.