My stomach tightens at the familiar crests of the foothills surrounding the farming community. These wide-open pastures dotted with cows and horses used to make me feel limitless, like I was somehow part of the grandeur of the peaks and valleys stretching out into infinity.

Now they fill me with dread.

Dr. Layne exits the highway, heading west toward my old neighborhood.

We pass the orchard where Sara and I used to pluck cherries each summer. We pass kids playing foursquare on the blacktop where I skinned my knee in third grade. The creek with the wooden bridge where Chloe and I carved our initials in middle school. The bleachers where Josh kissed me.

We pass the ice-cream shop where Mom and I inhaled pistachio-almond cones. The hardware store where Dad would pretend he knew the difference between a lug nut and bolt.

My old life passes in front of the window, and as it does, I catch my reflection in the glass. How can home still be the same when I’m so different?

Dr. Layne pulls along a curb and stops the car. Ahead, just beyond a baby-pink cherry tree, is my street.

“I’m not going to force you to do this,” she says. “Say the word and I’ll turn around right now.”

From the sidewalk, Mrs. Heckman waves like she does to everyone, while wrangling her three corgis on her punctual morning walk. The tulips bloom in straight rows along the edge of Colonel Ashby’s military-perfect garden on the corner.

It’s like my life is still here. Moving on without me.

Even though part of me wants to turn away, the part that was me for sixteen years wants nothing more than to turn this corner.

“We’ve already come this far,” I say.

Dr. Layne pulls forward, hugging the turn as we start down the street where I once lived.

42

She parks under the maple tree in our front yard.

Behind it, a gaping space.

Demolition crews tore down the straggling remnants, so now there’s nothing left but a foundation dug into the earth and a few erratic pieces of rusted rebar sticking out at odd angles.

“Why are we doing this?” I say, turning away from the nothingness formally known as my life. Dr. Layne leans back in her seat, her fingers tapping the wheel. After a minute, she points to my neck.

“You’re not wearing that necklace you usually wear. The one Piper gave you?”

I grab at the empty space.

“You know, most people think the phoenix symbolizes survival,” Dr. Layne continues.

I picture the wings on Piper’s back, angrily flapping away from me yesterday. “I know—rise up from the ashes unharmed and all that motivational mumbo jumbo.”