I fell into the chair with the white background and terra-cotta cowboy pattern on it. The furniture here was scratchy, musty, and mismatched, with deflated, uncomfortable cushions. I liked it anyway.

Kane sat on the carpet in front of his sister, playing a game I’d never heard of called pick-up sticks.

“Is this what you’ve been doing all afternoon?” Uncle Bran asked.

“Basically,” Kennedy said.

“Ken, you need to take advantage of being here. You can watch TV anywhere. I thought you were going hiking with Mom and Kane. What happened to that plan?”

“It’s hardly a hike if a preschooler can do it.”

“Still.”

“I didn’t feel like it, Brandon.”

“Yes, but . . .” Uncle Bran seemed to decide he didn’t feel like arguing with his daughter. “Where is Mom, anyway?” he asked, going over and pouring himself some orange juice.

“Maureen’s taking a nap,” Kennedy said.

“Where’s Kane?”

“I have no idea,” Kennedy said, winking at her brother.

“Daddy, I’m right here,” Kane said.

“Where?” Uncle Bran asked, looking around and pretending not to see him.

“Right here!” Kane shouted from the floor.

“Right here?” Uncle Bran said, suddenly rushing over and picking him up by the waist, then flipping him upside down, making my smallest cousin laugh and squeal.

“I can’t hear the show!” Kennedy protested.

I got up and started toward the stairs, wanting some alone time. Kennedy cranked the TV, and Kane’s giggles got even louder.

“Tess, we’re going to eat at the brewery tonight,” Uncle Bran called when I was almost to the loft. “Be ready to go at five!”

“Okay,” I said before taking three steps and face-planting onto the bed.

Just as I’d gotten comfortable, I heard talking through the open window that I realized was my aunt. Apparently, she wasn’t asleep, and her window in the room underneath ours was open, too. That’s how I heard her say:

“I know, I’m just worried about Tess.”

I couldn’t hear whoever she was talking to, but I suspected it was my mom. My hunch was confirmed seconds later.

“Sis, you haven’t seen her fingers. She’s mutilating them! I’m sick with worry about my goddaughter.” She paused as my stomach clenched into a fist. I moved closer to the window for better eavesdropping. “I know, but I think she needs to see someone.”

She listened; I held my breath.

“I’m doing what I can. I’ll send you this article I saw online about self-harm as a way to get relief from extreme anxiety or to feel more in control,” Aunt Maureen said. “What if she starts cutting herself? Or worse?”

My face went hot.

I’d never told anyone. I never would.