“Not that I know of. Is this the only time she’s messed with this stuff?”

“No. She was … she was in an outpatient rehab earlier this year. It was bad. She was doing better, sober for five months, but then the wave happened.”

“Fuck.” Nate’s frown deepens. “And Micah—how do you know he’s cheating on her?”

I tell him.

When I’m done, Nate takes a breath. Undoes the little pearl buttons on his blouse. Rolls up his sleeves.

“Okay. I need coffee. And some graph paper.”

“Graph paper?”

Nate shrugs. “We have a problem. Problems require graph paper.”

He stands, takes a step toward the counter, then turns to me.

“I’d like the record to note that you said he was perfect.”

“What?”

“Ben. You said he was perfect.” He leans forward and chucks me under the chin. “You know, Buzz, for someone willing to strap herself to a bomb and blow her body into outer space, you’re kind of a wimp.”

Maybe he’s right. But I’m looking at the math on this one. If a girl is left by everyone she loves, what is the probability that the next person she loves will leave her? You don’t need to be a statistician to figure that one out.

i wish angels were real.

Bench

Public Garden

Boston

19

Hannah

I reach into my purse for a pill, but the Altoids box I keep them in is empty. Panic slices into me, the same flavor as that time I thought I’d left my wallet on the D Line. I didn’t realize I’d gone through them so quickly. How could I have—

No, that’s impossible. There were six in here yesterday. I know it. I counted.

Mae.

The four corners of my bedroom—my new bedroom with its bare walls and unpacked boxes—slide in, closer and closer.

I’m off my bed and in the hallway, down the hallway, throwing open the door of her room before I even think to do any of it.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I say. Snarl. Growl. Spit.

She is not surprised to see me. My sister sets the huge book on her lap aside and clasps her hands together over her knees. Just like Dad.

“I’m sorry,” Mae says. “I had to.”

I let it go that first time. Tried to be sneakier. Didn’t want to get into it with her. But now: We’re fucking getting into it.

“No, you didn’t. You have no right to go through my things—”

“Where did you get them?”

“It’s none of your goddamn business,” I say. “Give them back.”

She looks at me, the smooth surface of a dark lake.

“I flushed them down the toilet.”

Someone—not me—reaches for the nearest thing and throws it at her. As it flies toward her, I see what it is and I stop breathing.