Dad materializes in the hallway, says if you want he’ll boil water on the stove, pour it over your head, same as a shower, he claims.

Only with third-degree burns, you fire back.

His laugh’s a breathy hiss, like a snake gasping.

You cannonball into your parents’ bed, pillows scattering in your wake, but Mom doesn’t look away from her book, says your breath stinks even though you’re nowhere near her nose. So you logroll over to her, blow all that hot pastiness into her face, and she pushes your head away, says boy, if you don’t quit, but she’s trying not to laugh, and your lips aim for her cheek but she bobs and you glance her eyebrow.

The bathroom door bursts open, your sister shouts happy now? from the hallway, then slams her bedroom door shut.

So yeah.

A day you couldn’t pick out of a lineup.

A day like most before it.

Except on June eighth, at 11:43 in the morning, your life, your entire world, snaps in two. Forevermore, there is only before 11:43 and after 11:43.

No one tells you this. That your life is always a few shitty seconds from absolute devastation. From irredeemable destruction.

Because in the end, all it takes is twelve seconds, and two otherwise innocent, seemingly disconnected things merge to obliterate my life.

1. Dad continued his I-suck-at-technology ways.

2. My best friend wished my parents a happy anniversary.

23 Months After the Funeral

Also Known as Now

99

Everyone shows up to a Hills party—cool for people-watching, not cool for personal space. Tonight’s party-thrower is among the more popular kids at Elytown High, meaning you gotta walk sideways to get anywhere.

“Umm, what the hell are they playing?” Autumn asks.

I shrug. “Trap-rock-bluegrass?”

“Mmm, I’m thinking alternative-emo-backpack rap.”

Autumn and I slot music three ways: good, listenable, kill the DJ.

“Listenable,” she says.

And I agree. Besides, expecting good music at a Hills party is like swimming in Scotland thinking you’ll spot the Loch Ness Monster.

Autumn’s brow slides up. “Beer?”

“I’m good,” I tell her. “Gonna check out the pool.”

She squeezes my hand and I’m not sure if this means be right back or see you later. She picks her way toward the keg until a couple of girls stop her to chat.

I dispense a week’s worth of hey, what ups in the ninety seconds it takes to reach the sliding patio panels.

This view dropkicks my jaw, every time.

Standing here, the lake gobbling the horizon, black waves colliding like monster trucks, you could convince me we’re at the edge of the world.

I nearly forget I’m not alone.

My chest vibrates. I pinch my phone from my shirt pocket.

I’ve ignored her last three calls.

“Hey, you’re already at the party,” Whit says, like an accusation.

“Yeah, I told you I—”

She cuts me off. “When were you gonna tell me?”