It was too hot already, the air sticky with humidity as I stumbled into the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face and shoved back my hair as best I could. It was getting too long; I needed it cut. The world was a little clearer once I had my contacts in, clear enough to grab my bottle of pills off the shelf and swallow two.

After about forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, the tight feeling in my chest would mellow out like melting butter. I’d be able to breathe again. I’d be in control.

I filled my diffuser and switched it on before I headed out. Chamomile, lavender, and lemon wafted into the air in a gentle mist, covering the stale old smell of cigarettes that clung to the walls. Kathryn Peters, my former social worker, suggested I try aromatherapy when I was living with her family, and the habit had stuck. Without Kathy, I would have ended up on the streets. Another kid on probation who should have fallen through the cracks. Instead, she gave me a safe place to stay until I had a house of my own.

I still called her often to talk, and I’d gotten close with their son Daniel too. But Daniel lived overseas now, so when I moved out, Kathy and her husband James sold their house in Wickeston and started traveling. She was on a cruise headed for the Alaskan coast when she called me last.

I made a mental note to text her today. There weren’t many people outside my household that I considered myself close to, but Kathy had saved my life. I’d never forget that.

The room closest to mine was Lucas’s, but the door was open and his messy bed was empty. He was probably in the shop working, already pissed that I’d slept in. Vincent’s room was in the attic and Jason’s was further down the hall, although he spent most nights in Vince’s room anyway. The house was big enough for all of us with a bedroom to spare, but that extra room stayed shut and locked. It was used for storage now, nothing more. No memories, no ghosts in the walls. Only a room.

If I told myself that enough, I’d eventually make it true.

The smell of fried food and weed greeted me as I went down the stairs toward the kitchen. Jason was at the stove, frying sausage patties as my pit bull, Jojo, shoved her wet gray nose demandingly against his leg. The shower down the hall was running and Vincent was loudly singing from within.

“Damn, took a while for you to haul your ass down here.” Jason glanced back at me as I walked in, his shaggy blue hair damp and a towel slung over his shoulders. “Are you hungry? Don’t let that beggar fool you. I fed her already.”

“I could eat.” I flopped down on one of the mismatched chairs next to the table as Jason scooped the sausage out of the pan. Jojo decided I was a better target to beg and came over with her tail wagging so hard it whipped her sides with every swing. I grasped her big head in my hands, shaking her back and forth in a little dance that made her whine excitedly as she tried to lick my face. I wasn’t hungry, not at all, but if I didn’t eat, I’d have the damn shakes in a few hours.