My mom stands and takes a duster to the pictures lined up on the mantel. “I’m sorry, Cham,” she says, slowly moving down each frame. “I know it’s hard, but I can’t double-check every single thing you do, although I guess now I’m going to have to. Otherwise your college applications—”

“Mom,” I say quietly. “How am I supposed to leave?” She turns around with the duster suspended in the air. “Like how am I supposed to just go to college? I overheard the doctor telling you Dad has, what, a year, maybe two, of semi-decent brain functioning before it’s all taken from him—his movement, his speech, everything. I’m not gonna start a new chapter in a new place and be all rah-rah about my future when he’s dying here.”

As soon as the words float out of my mouth and into the living room, I realize how true they are.

“You can’t sabotage your whole future before it even has a chance to start,” my mom says, dusting a family picture so hard it goes flying to the ground. “Are you just gonna put your life on hold?”

“It already is on hold! Don’t you feel this weird limbo we’ve been bobbing along in for the last few years?”

“Well—”

“We never talk about it! Dad doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s sick when he’s in the hospital, and you just go around scrubbing things like if only we were a little more sanitary, everything would be okay.” I try to stand up, but the skin on my feet is too raw. “College is just this stupid thing people get fixated on because it makes them think they have some control over their future. It’s such a load of bullshit, and I’m so tired of mucking around in it. Nothing is okay. And it’s nothing college can fix.” I get up and the stinging in my feet gets more pronounced. “It’s like the human condition or something, to be fucking fucked.”

My mom puts the duster down. “What is it, Cham?” she asks, running over to me. “Is it starting to happen? Your face is getting really red. It’s happening, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” I lie. “Nothing is happening.”

“Sit down,” my mom urges. “You need to stay calm.”

“I’m fine.”

“Head between your legs. Close your eyes.”

“I am not having an outburst!” I limp back and forth, tapping my fingers together, just hoping I don’t lose total control, burst into flame, and start a fire on the floor.

“Picture the waterfall,” my mom is saying.

“Mom, just stop.”

I clutch opposite wrists under my sweater and dig my fingernails into my skin until the red in my vision is replaced by the red of my blood rushing to the surface of my skin.

“Mom, I’m fine,” I say as she tries to put her hands on my neck. I run my fingers over the marks my nails made. “I just, I have to go, okay?”

“Where are you going?” she asks.