I say this like it’s no big deal, like my parents weren’t grade A theater junkies who raised me on a steady diet of Broadway.

But that was another lifetime, one where spontaneous choreographed dances and happy endings seemed not only plausible but likely.

At some point, you realize life is not a musical.

“Yours or hers?” Piper says, picking up the charred handbell I keep on my dresser. The once-shiny surface is all greenish black on one side, but it was the only thing at “the site” worth salvaging, according to Glenn. I’m all too happy to take his word for it, since seeing my house in ashes is pretty low on my to-do list.

“My mom’s,” I say. “So yeah, mine now.”

Piper puts it down to pick up a picture. Mom has her arms around me on the stage in my lopsided Rizzo wig and Pink Ladies jacket, while Dad gives a dorky thumbs-up trying to act like one of the leather-clad cool kids from our production of Grease.

“Your parents died, too?” Piper says.

She looks at me expectantly. I never know what people want me to say. That being an orphan sucks? That no one will ever love me like my parents did, without limits or fine print? That they left me adrift—untethered, unanchored? I cross my legs on the bed, with my pillow bunched up on my lap.

“I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Piper puts down the picture among all the other framed memories I’m trying to forget.

“Noted,” Piper says. “Kind of picked up that vibe at group. I have to warn you, though, Layne has ways of getting you to talk.” She strums her fingers together like an evil genius. “Let us help you, Ava. Let us heal you.”

She picks up the therapy notebook on my desk.

“Trust me: the best way to get through these survivor powwows it is to play nice, say the right things, and look like you’re having some major breakthrough every few weeks.” She flaps the notebook at me. “And fill this up with all sorts of gobbledygook about your inner feelings or Layne’s gonna make you do one-on-ones.”

“What do I write about?”

“Anything. I write lots of lists and poetry because they take up more pages, not to mention I get bonus therapy points because Layne thinks I’m using art to ‘process’ what happened.”

“What did happen?”

“Drunk driving. Well, technically, drunk passengering.”

“Who was driving?”

“Someone else.” Piper picks up another frame and spins around toward me.

“Were you at Regional? Me too!”

A chorus line of nurses and doctors and Cora and Glenn stand with me in the hospital on the day I left the burn unit.

“Terry the Torturer!” Piper shouts. “That guy was a total sadist.”