Even though I got some sleep, there were the occasional flickers in my subconscious. Memories of Dad. Of being in a car with him as a kid.

And then there were flashes of the sun. The smell of the ocean. Was it a long-buried memory of living in Florida?

I woke up after ten o’clock on Monday and stayed in bed for another hour. I knew the house would be quiet—Marian would be at school and her parents at work—but I didn’t want to get up and face the world. So while I stayed cuddled under my blankets, my dad was in court.

My stomach rumbles for the first time in days so I venture down to the kitchen. I’m hungry. No, hungry doesn’t convey the emptiness I feel. I start eating. Cereal. Toast. More toast. I heat up a frozen pizza.

Nothing is filling me up.

I’m on the couch polishing off an entire bag of potato chips when the doorbell rings. I don’t move. Not solely because I’m still in my flannel pajamas and haven’t showered since Friday morning, but because I don’t want to see anybody.

After a few moments, the door opens.

“Hello?” Grandma Gleason calls out. “Ally?”

I wonder if she’ll go away if I don’t move or make a sound.

Her footsteps come closer so I realize I have no choice. “In here,” I call out as I shove the empty bag of chips under the couch.

She enters the room and stops when she sees me. She looks exactly like Neil’s mom, but a little older and with bright white hair she wears in a bun. She glances up and down and grimaces at my chest, where I notice several broken potato chips rest.

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten a fruit or vegetable?” she asks.

I reply by staring blankly at her, because I honestly can’t recall.

She walks over to the kitchen, which overlooks the living room, and opens the refrigerator. She pulls out some grapes, an apple, and an orange. She takes out a bowl, cutting board, and knife and starts making a fruit salad.

I don’t have the heart to tell her that I’m full from all the processed food I just inhaled.

“You are going to eat, then we’ll talk about a shower.”

I know better than to argue with her. “Have you talked to your son?”

She pauses mid-cut. “Yes. He says your father has been advised of the charges. The judge didn’t grant a bond, so he’s being transferred to a jail until his hearing. And the no-contact order has been issued.”

“So it’s out.”

“Yes.” She looks up. “It’s out. There’ll be a press conference in a bit from the sheriff down in Florida. I came over in case you wanted company when you watch it.”