At twenty-four hours, I got a second wind when some lady on CNN found her daughter alive in the hospital. She was in a coma, which is why no one knew her name and couldn’t put her on a list of survivors. So I decided both of my parents were in comas. All we had to do was go find them. Or maybe they were being heroes. Rescuing kids in trees. Huddling on top of floating debris. Calling out to rescue workers: Here! Over here! They are alive, and when they get back, they will write a memoir of survival and it’ll be made into a movie starring Hugh Jackman with a Boston accent, and Rachel Weisz, maybe, or that Greek actress Nia Vardalos.

But then we are told that the coma theory is a long shot. At least for both of them. But Dad always says the long shot is the best shot. And then he starts talking science and I don’t understand him anymore, but my point is that they might be in a coma, but in a cave or a boat, right, not like in a hospital. And someone is taking care of them or, I don’t know, maybe Cynthia is right and there really are angels. She said she dreamed of one last night.

Cyn’s curled up on the recliner in the living room, which I’m avoiding because she’s texting with all of Mom’s friends and students from their yoga studio and if one of them comes to the house and is all namaste I will cut a bitch. I really will.

It’s night two, the second night after the wave, and when Gram and Papa arrive I feel a momentary sense of relief because they’re old and have wisdom and will know what to do. But their panic is so present, so palpable, that I’ve started avoiding them as much as I can. It’s hard watching old people try not to cry. Every now and then Papa will look around, as if he’s just realized where he is. “I can’t believe it,” he’ll say, shaking his head. “I just can’t believe it.”

Mae’s not any better, but for different reasons. Every time I leave a room and come back in, she studies me, like I’m something in one of her labs. To see if I took anything.

“Do you want me to pee in a cup?” I finally snap, around the forty-eight-hour mark.

My sister is doing calculus homework—to relax, she says. This is why she’ll jump in a spaceship someday and go be amazing and never be scared and have all the answers and I will be here, forcing myself to get out of bed in the morning. If I’m still here.

Because fuck here. Really. Fuck it.