I don’t need to be the center of attention—I never have been, and it’s not a place I like to be. Nah always needed that, needed applause and good jobs and people blowing kisses. And that’s fine. But right now, when we’re all trying to figure out how to deal with Mom and Dad being gone, suddenly it’s become about keeping Hannah okay. Everyone tiptoeing around her, worrying about her depression (because that’s what they think the whole problem is), knocking on her door, wringing their hands. Uncle Tony trying to ask about school, meeting with Hannah’s teachers. It’s the Hannah Show, and we all have front-row seats. And I want to stop going.

Aunt Nora keeps trying to do all this nice stuff for us, and she has no idea we’re both lying to her face every single day. Hannah, because she’s using, and me, for not telling my aunt and uncle what’s going on. Not telling them there are drugs under their roof and a drug addict sleeping on their bed. They deserve to know, but I’ve got one more card to play. And then, I don’t care if it’s disloyal and Hannah never talks to me again, I’ll confess. Everything. I’m scared that they’ll send her away somewhere, that her life will be even worse, but I have to take that chance. For her.

I want her to make Mom and Dad proud. Not turn into my bio mom. Because that’s what she is going to become, maybe for life, isn’t she? Isn’t that what happens when you can’t ever stop? And how am I supposed to deal with that? What am I supposed to do?

So I have to fix this. I have to fix her. I have to work the problem.

But how do you fix someone who has broken into a thousand pieces?

The data is terrible. My sister is refusing to go to the counseling sessions; the school has called about her ditching. After I confronted her today, she shut her door and refused to come out.

So I do the only thing I can think of: I call Micah.

“Hello?”

A girl’s voice. I look at the screen, thinking—but, no, definitely Micah’s number.

“Hello. Can I please speak to Micah?”

“What?”

It’s loud in the background. A party, probably. It’s Friday night, after all. Well, it’s only four in the afternoon there, but surfers get started early.

“Micah. I need to talk to Micah?”

“Oh, right, yeah, uh—he’s kinda … busy.” Laughter. Hers. “Hold on.”