My hands clench, and my shoulders feel tight with panic. How long has she planned this? I just keep thinking, She can’t do this, she can’t do this. Do I sacrifice our box and call Mom? That would only make Ruth hate me, and besides, what could Mom do? But if I don’t call, that’s only putting off the really difficult, painful conversation that will inevitably happen when they see whatever Ruth is about to do to herself. And what am I supposed to do while she’s in there?

Ruth’s found whatever she was looking for on her phone, and for a moment I imagine stealing it and running. She looks up at me, hesitating. For a moment I think I see a flash of guilt in her eyes, but she shrugs and says, “I’ll text you when I’m done,” and walks through the glass doors.

I stand there, blinking, trying to decide what to do. I watch Ruth through the window and glass doors. After a moment at the counter, a girl with tiny pigtails and ink up both arms takes my sister around a wall to where I can’t see her. This isn’t something I want to watch anyway, and I turn around and start walking.

I feel my breathing quicken, which is not easy when the air you’re breathing is completely saturated with moisture. But I can’t help it, and the hairs on my neck start to bristle. My stupid, ridiculous, stubborn big sister. How could she do this to me?

I look around. I am alone in New Orleans.

A quick shot of adrenaline pumps from my sternum to my fingertips, but I try to shake it off. I can handle myself. I’ll be all right. I could ignore what Ruth said and call Ellie and Eddie, but they can’t really get here in time to do anything either. I can be smart and safe on my own. I just have to make it through today, make it through the Treasure Hunt and finding our box, until everything can be happy again.

A few blocks down the street is the cemetery, and beyond the fence, a stone bench. I will go there and wait, in sight of the road, in sight of the tattoo shop. I won’t do anything stupid. I will be okay.

I walk a few blocks, trying to stay calm. I take a few steps into the street, crossing toward the cemetery entrance. There is a loud screeching, scraping sound and a wide black truck careens around the corner so fast and so sharp it’s almost on two wheels. The mud-splattered fender avalanches toward me. I can’t scream. I can’t even swallow. The horn honks and it’s so near I can almost feel the sound waves.

I am going to die.