I forgot my own beer. The condensation from the can has soaked into the ragged coaster below it. I pick it up and take a swig and pretend I wasn’t thinking about her … and that place. The fan on the ceiling spins. It seems a little louder for a second, then gets quiet again.

The game switches to a commercial. It’s definitely a rerun. We’ve probably sat here watching it before.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my dad glance at me.

“You seem out of it,” he says, tone gruff and casual.

I shuffle on the sofa and raise my eyebrows at him.

“Do I?” I question and play it off.

My dad shrugs, then turns to the TV again. His gaze is unfocused, more lost in thought than in the game. Or I guess the commercial for some weight-loss pill.

“You weren’t here last night. Thought you were staying over.” He talks without looking at me. His tone nonchalant but I know him too well.

“I was.” The commercial changes. “Went to bed early.”

“Oh. Guess I didn’t hear you.” My dad picks up his beer again, but sets it back down without drinking.

Adrenaline rushes through me but I stay still. Don’t ask questions Dad.

Thoughts of last night try to trickle in and instead I focus on anything else. The living room is warm from the sun. It was never warm at that place, no matter how bright it was.

It was never warm until the summer came, and then it was too hot. The teachers had personal air-conditioning units and box fans that stayed on them, but we didn’t have anything. During those few summer months it was like being baked alive in an oven. The concrete floors held all the heat in.

The teachers believed in keeping it cold until they believed in burning us to death. Never a middle ground. We had to earn comfort. It was a privilege.

I guess you could say I don’t have a middle ground, either.

I go between memories of screaming and torture and wanting to die to memories of Haley through a window.

It’s going to be over soon. All the shit that happened in the past is going to be taken care of. It’ll be dead and buried, and then these thoughts can go away.

“You alright?” my dad asks quietly. I can feel him watching me.

“Yeah.” I don’t take my eyes off the TV. “Fine.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute. There’s a weight in the air, like he’s getting ready to break some bad news. Don’t know what bad news he thinks he has to tell me. I pretend I don’t feel it and keep looking at the TV.

“I know,” he starts, then waves his hand at the TV. It’s just the game on the screen. “I heard the news.”