I walk up to one of the windows, peer inside. I’ve never been this close, never wanted to before now, but today I feel like this is exactly where I belong. Inside is a lake that reflects the purple sky behind me. It looks like the forest has moved in, and at first I can’t see where the building ends and nature starts. It rains inside, water dripping from everywhere, and my nose fills with the earthy smell of plants and dirt and something else. Mold, I guess. When my eyes finally adjust, I see that what I thought were vines are wires, and tree limbs are pipes dangling from the floor above.

Below the window is a dryish spot, just big enough for me to stand. I grip the windowsill, trying to avoid the piles of dead flies stuck in the crevices, and heft myself up, bringing a leg to rest on the sill. The flies crackle under my knee. I shudder and scramble over the sill, landing on the balls of my feet inside the building, where the water laps against a fake shoreline of rocks and dirt. I breathe out and look around.

I’ve crossed a border into a hidden world, like Max and the Wild Things. I’m breathing fast, but I don’t feel scared—I feel free. Free from my mother’s words that glom on to my insides, thick and suffocating. I sink to the floor, press my back into the softness of the moss-covered wall. Night falls and soon I’m sitting in the cold; water drips around me, and darkness makes it impossible to see anything, so I rest my forehead on my knees. The dark makes it hard to tell the passing of time, so I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there listening to water drop and animal feet skitter across concrete.

“Claire? Claire?” Dad’s voice is cracked and worn, like he’s been yelling or calling. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re freezing cold.” His arms surround me, lift me up, so warm they feel hot against me. I clasp my hands behind his neck and try my best to hold on. He lifts me over the window and begins to walk, holding me tight against him. I feel five years old, and I squeeze my eyes shut, never wanting it to end.

“Mom packed a bag,” I whisper into his shirt when my lips aren’t frozen anymore. “I think she left us.”

He doesn’t stop walking, but his arms tighten around me. “I know.”

His feet crunch on the rocky pavement and wind swishes through the trees, bringing with it the smell of leaves and water and fish. Of home. I nestle my face into his collarbone, let my words fall into his shirt. “She said you didn’t want me.”