I noticed fat pouches ripple along Samuel’s thick neck as he turned to exit the room. I wanted to pinch them until he screamed.

“We won’t be long,” my mother called.

Annabelle, who had been sitting mutely, leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Grace, I’m scared.”

Two guys remained, sitting on the couch across the coffee table: one fat, one thin. They both had patchy beards. I can only assume this was because they were too lazy to shave.

“So, you guys are Jayde’s daughters, right?”

I narrowed my eyes in their direction, trying to discern which one had spoken. The guy spoke again, “Which one of you is Grace, and which one is Annabelle?” It was the skinny one. Despite his scrawniness, his voice was deep and carried well, like a man who had been performing on stage his entire life.

“Yeah,” I replied. “I’m Grace. This is Annabelle.”

He squinted at us. “How old are you guys—like, eighteen?”

“I’m seventeen.” I pointed at Annabelle. “And she’s thirteen.”

“Holy shit.” His eyes widened as his eyebrows shot up.

“It’s fine, people assume we’re older all the time.” I glanced at Annabelle. “We’re pretty mature. I suppose you have to be when your mother is like that, you know?”

The fat one, who was clutching the bong, snickered as he leaned forward and grabbed a pinch of weed. He sprinkled it into the bowl and motioned toward me. “Want a hit?”

“I think I’m good.” I shifted toward my sister, who was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. “It already feels inappropriate enough here without us smoking weed with some twentysomething strangers.”

The skinny guy and the fat guy laughed in unison. “Suit yourself.”

The fat one took a hit, coughing loudly for what seemed like a long time. I started to wonder if he was going to hack up a lung in front of my petrified sister.

When he recovered, he ran his fingers through his wiry beard, sinking deeper into the sofa. “You know she’s fucking Samuel, right?”

“What?”

He shrugged. “You’re going to find out sooner or later. I figured I’d be the first to tell you.”

My eyes clouded over, sticky from the smoke. I blinked rapidly but could still barely see. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I realized my fists were clenched; releasing them, I grabbed Annabelle’s hand and floundered for the door.

As we surfaced, the freezing night air stung my overheated cheeks and filled my lungs. I coughed, its fresh crispness shocking my system.

We sat down on the curb. I was still clutching my sister’s hand; it was clammy, so I let it fall, rubbing my palms along my pants to dry the sweat.

The streets were lined with cars, likely left behind by people in a drunken stupor headed downtown. Flecks of snow casually fell from the sky, collecting on Annabelle’s black hair. She started to shiver, our coats remained inside. I unbuttoned my cardigan and peeled it off, wrapping it around her shoulders. When she turned her face toward me, smiling in appreciation, I noticed a speckling of snowflakes had landed on her eyelashes, and as she blinked, they glittered under the street lamps.