I tell my father what he wants to hear, that I’m well taken care of, that I’m safe. Punching in a code to the vending machine, it whirs in front of me. The mechanism turns, and I’m comforted, watching the candy bar fall down with a plunk. At least there’s some order to the universe. At least I can press a button in a grey hallway and know a small rectangular piece of chocolate is going to plop down a metallic chute.

“There’s nothing you could’ve done,” I say. “Jackson’s…No one could have known.” A car horn blasts through the phone. My father curses. Tires squeal. “Dad. Please. Please don’t speed.”

I feel like I should comfort him, tell him everything’s going to be okay, but I never believed people when they said that to me. I was never the reassuring one. Not like my mother. Not like Jackson, even though I could never tell if Jackson was faking or not.

Bending down to retrieve the candy bar, I hear that ringing noise again. It’s dull, wafting in and out. I hold my breath. Something’s different about this time though. I’m not afraid. Not like before.

“Ange, are you still on the phone?” my father asks.

I focus on the ringing and it lessens in intensity. A small rush of excitement tingles through me. Ringing means I’m not alone. Sure enough, over my shoulder, Jackson looms. I catch a glimpse of his face in the glass reflection. “I’m here,” I say. “I am. Please don’t cry.”

“I’m getting there as fast as I can, Ange. I’ll be there. Soon. Soon.”

“Okay, Dad. Just don’t rush. Okay?”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this. It’s too much. No one should have to deal with this.”

My brother sidles next to me, perusing the vending machine options. “Don’t worry,” I say into the phone. “I have someone with me.”

“Not the same though. It’s not family.”

My eyes meet with Jackson’s. I feel elated and sad all at once.

“I’m almost there,” my father says. “I’m coming for you. It’s just you and me now.”

“Okay,” I reply.

Something wet trickles down my nose. I concentrate, and the blood slows. Wiping it away with the back of my hand, for the first time in my life, it occurs to me that this curse my mother gave me might just be a gift. Something useful. Something good. My father keeps talking. He tells me about the arrangements we have to make. He doesn’t know how he’s going to pay for any of this. I can feel the stress in his voice, the weight of the situation eating away at him.