Vada doesn’t respond, giving me time. Except I’m not sure there’s enough time in the world for me to face the ugly truth of what my mom has done. What was done to her. What it means for me and everything I’ve ever believed in.

My voice is barely a whisper when I finally say, “I don’t care why they did it. I just know I have to get the fuck out of here.”

“Thatta girl,” Vada says, stroking my hair. “Baby steps.”

This time, my sob is tinged with a little laughter. “Only took fifteen years, but you’ve finally corrupted me with your heathen ways like my nana Knudson always told me you would.”

Vada pulls back, her mouth wide in shock. “She did not say that. Your nana loves me!”

“She prays for you. It’s not the same. She’s Southern.”

“Huh,” Vada says, tugging the hair tie from around her wrist and looping it in her messy red hair. “Well. That explains a lot, actually.” She passes me a tissue. “How about that slushy?”

I blot at my stinging face. “I knew that was why we came here.”

“Oh, please. Give me some credit. I legitimately pulled in for a parking lot breakdown. But we do need to kick off the road trip right.”

2

Micah

I was thirteen the first time I snuck out at night. I’d found out my dad’s prison sentence meant he wouldn’t be able to help me train for freshman baseball tryouts. Of course, his sentence meant he’d miss a hell of a lot more than tryouts, but that was the gut punch. Up to that point, my dad had always been my coach. From T-ball to coaches’ pitch to Little League to majors … he was my batting partner, my catcher, my best friend and biggest fan.

The invite for tryouts came in the mail, and I quit on the spot. What was the point? I couldn’t play without him. I didn’t know how. Now I realize how stupid that was. Objectively, though, what was the point? I didn’t know then about the heckling at school, or the dirty looks from my friends’ parents, or the distrustful faces when I applied for my first summer job … I had no idea what was coming, but some sort of self-preservation must have kicked in because by the time shit hit the fan, I’d cut myself off.