The visit to the orthopedist the next day thankfully goes well, with the X-ray confirming there’s no break and the doctor graduating me from crutches to a boot. It’s still clunky and makes for uneven walking, but at least my armpits aren’t sore anymore. I celebrate with a Dunkin’ run with Claire after school, and then my parents drive me back up that night when they get home from work, the sun having long faded behind the fiery golden leaves lining the highway.

We’re already past dinnertime at the Beast, so we make a stop at a roadside diner about halfway to school and I get a BLT with a mountain of delicious greasy fries. Then we get back on the road, and as we pull into campus, I realize that my parents have never actually seen the school. “I wish I could give you a tour,” I say as they park in the lot nearest Rumson. “But between the boot and the dark—”

“We’ll find another time to come see everything, honey,” my mom assures me, reaching back to squeeze my hand. “I’m sorry we had to miss Parents’ Weekend. We really wanted to be here.”

Talking about Parents’ Weekend feels like a minefield, so I just give a brief smile and then together, we get me and my things into my room. I point out as many buildings as I can along the way, but I can see they’re eager to get back home, so I let them go with hugs goodbye and collapse onto my bed, pulling out my phone.

There are about fifty messages from Claire, begging for updates. In the middle of them is a photo of her and Lowen, both of them cheesing for the camera with their cheeks pressed together. Lowen is extremely cute—their curly brown hair frames a face with dimples big enough for their own zip code—and beneath them, Claire has texted You can have this too!

With your own person, she added underneath, making me snort.

Even in the best-case scenario, I don’t think I’ll be getting Salem to smile hugely for any cameras, but it does look nice. Stop bullying me, I text Claire back. I just got back.

She replies with laugh-cry emojis, followed by some big eyes, and I groan and tuck my phone under my pillows, then rest my head atop them and close my eyes.

A minute later, I hear footsteps through the ceiling.

He’s there. One floor above me. All I have to do is drag this stupid boot up one flight of stairs.

I can’t.

I try to go to my happy place, reflecting on some of my best poker hands, but once again, Claire gets in my head. Why are you so good at gambling when it comes to everything but your own happiness?