Mae reaches out to catch it, not to block herself but to catch it, but the model falls on the hardwood floor and shatters.

Mae stares.

Hundreds of shards—wood and plastic and bits of metal—are scattered at our feet. I see them now as they were all those years ago, when Mae and Dad took over the dining room table to build the International Space Station and a shuttle docked against it. It took several weekends. Their fingers, painting and fitting and gluing. Dad, building her dream right alongside her. His hands, shaping her world.

“Mae.”

My sister doesn’t make a sound as she slides off the bed and onto her hands and knees. Crawls.

“Mae, I’m—”

“Get out.”

This. Right here. This is why my parents wanted another baby. They must have known, even then, what a mistake they’d been stuck with when they had me.

I don’t remember to grab a coat when I leave. I didn’t ever wear one in LA. Sweaters. That’s all I ever wore. I hear Aunt Nora call my name, but I hurry away before she can grab me. Run to the T.

I call Drew before it goes underground. He picks up on the first ring.

“Drew’s Pharmaceuticals, how may I direct your call?”

“I could use some more of your pretty little pills, Drew. Can we meet somewhere?”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Drew?”

“You’re out of them already?”

I sigh. “Oh, Jesus, not you, too.”

“Not me, too?”

“Look, sell to me or don’t. I can find someone else who will—”

“Where do you want me to meet you?”

I am so grateful. It’s sad how grateful I am that I don’t have to spend the night looking for someone who feels as desperate and sad as me, someone who might know where I can find more.

“You remember that angel statue in the Garden?” I ask. “On the corner of Beacon and Arlington, but kind of hidden?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Okay.”

This evening my angel looks especially fierce. Dark storm clouds are gathering behind her, and leathery leaves the color of my mother’s spiced pumpkin soup swirl around her every time there’s a gust of wind. We are alone in our little corner of the Boston Public Garden. Just past the wrought-iron fence are the elegant stone buildings of Newbury Street—hotels and shops and cafes. Places for the living.

“Hello,” I whisper to her.

She says nothing, just stares beyond me, one arm uplifted, scattering crumbs from her bronze bowl.