“Yeah,” I say. “I just wasn’t expecting it. At first I thought I was going insane, but then I figured it had to be Jackson. Of course.” Anger surges through me. “I could kill him. I know it’s more authentic having me be surprised, but I could’ve used a warning when she attacked.”

Elliot knits his brow. “When who attacked?”

“You guys had to have snuck in before or something. It was a pulley system, wasn’t it? What else could make it move?”

Elliot stares at me. “Ange, I’ve known you half my life, and it’s true Jackson can be a jerk. But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I take in his concerned gaze and how his hand squeezes mine. Slowly, I pull back, my mind racing, and fiddle with the buttons of my jacket. “Forget it,” I say, forcing a smile. Elliot shuffles from foot to foot, our magic moment deflated.

“Anyway,” Elliot says. “I’ll see you, okay?”

He heads to his car and hops in. The tires squeal as the car peels off. I look up just in time to see his taillights vanish in the night.

*        *         *

I sit on my bed inspecting the no refills tab printed on my empty prescription bottle. Maybe Jackson’s wrong. Maybe I do need these pills, even if it’s all in my head. Maybe I’m not as strong as him. Though Jackson’s one to talk, he can’t go a night without some sort of fix.

The room seems to bend around me. I brush my fingers over the fine print of the prescription bottle. With my head still pounding from the vodka shots, I open my laptop and click to a web browser. But what am I looking for?

I type in ‘going insane’ but that just depresses me, so I delete the search. Next up, I take my time spelling out the word doctors used to describe my mother: s-c-h-i-z-o-p-h-r-e-n-i-c.

As articles pop up, I scroll through and picture my mother in the psych ward, her hands over her ears. She had pulled out most of her hair by then, and her eyes were always darting, searching for people that weren’t there.

A flood of chat forums unfurl on screen. Clicking through them, I scan the headlines, but there’s nothing useful. Leaning forward, I keep reading.

On the other side of the wall, Jackson’s bed begins to squeak, the bedsprings bouncing rhythmically. Beth cries out. I cover my ears, but I still hear my brother grunt. Even the lamp shakes on the nightstand.

“Seriously?” I say.

The moans become louder, harder, faster. I push a pillow over my head, trying to drown out the noise. When that doesn’t work, I grab my laptop and seek refuge on the porch.