My chin quivers, but I try to be strong and suck my tears back up. I want to say so much more, but I don’t have a chance because the phone rings.

Both Mom and I jump. Noah races into the room.

Mom answers by the second ring. “Dad?” Silence. “Oh, I’m sorry . . . uh, yes. Yes, that’s him. He was? But he’s not hurt? Oh, thank goodness,” she says. “Yes. Absolutely. I’m on my way right now—thank you. Thank you so much.”

She sets her phone down and immediately hangs her head in her hands and bursts out crying.

“Mom, what is it?” Noah asks.

Mom nods as she catches her breath. “He’s okay,” she tells us.

Noah and I look at each other, relieved, while Mom dials the phone again.

“Elle—yes, he’s all right. Yeah. He’s at the police station downtown—they picked him up, trying to get on a bus to the city without a ticket,” she explains. “Okay, okay, I’ll be waiting.”

“He’s at the police station?” I ask. “Is he in trouble?”

“He’s not in trouble. He’s just confused and—” Mom stops herself, pulls in a deep gulp of air before continuing. “I mean, he’s not just confused. He had one of his episodes again. But he’s safe; that’s the important thing.”

Mama picks Mom up to go to the police station. Noah is on the phone with Kendra, telling her about everything that’s happened.

So I take Dewey to my room.

I close the door and slump down onto my floor like a limp balloon animal, Dewey leaning against me. I should feel better now, knowing that Gramps is safe. But it’s the opposite. Now that the worry is gone, it’s made room for other things. Like whether Gramps will forgive me for breaking our secret, or Dewey’s uncertain fate. Like whether things with Jude will ever be normal again, or the way Mom snapped at me tonight. It’s that last one that’s sticking its thorns in me now. And not only because she kind of hurt my feelings, but because somewhere deep down, I know that she was right.

I can’t always wait for someone else to make me feel better, or get lost in a daydream until the murky feelings subside. Sometimes, I guess I should be responsible for making myself feel better. But I can’t solve all my problems at once; I have to tackle one thing at a time, like Moms are always telling me.

I look at Dewey; she blinks her soft, wet eyes at me.

“I know what I need to do,” I tell her. “First things first.”