We sit to a cooking-channel-worthy spread for dinner, which means Cora has hauled herself out of her “down day” on Sara’s birthday and is now spiraling headfirst into an “everything’s-going-to-be-fine! recovery week,” aka competing for Chef of the Year. At home, meals were simple affairs, usually eaten off paper plates. But on days like this, we eat on china plates with small yellow birds on them, and every seat has a full place setting of silverware, except for Sara’s, of course. No one ever sits there, like we’re just waiting for her to dance in and claim her rightful spot.

Glenn passes me the mashed potatoes in a porcelain serving dish, not even trying to keep his eyes off the wig.

“That Piper’s a real spitfire, isn’t she?”

“She sure is,” Cora says, though not in quite the same innocuous, upbeat tone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing. She’s just unique, that’s all. But if you like her—” Cora says.

“Yeah, I like her,” I say.

“Well, good then.” Glenn dings his fork like a gavel on the table.

Cora chews quietly, her eyes down.

“I was reading an article,” she starts. Here we go. “About these camps they do every year where you can go and spend time with other survivors.”

Cora produces a magazine from her lap and places it on the table next to me. On the cover, a black girl with a melted face like mine swings from a rope over a pond. “You might find friends who are serious about recovery.”

I put my fork down, the tines pinging against the china.

“My life is already dead serious. But if you want to say something about Piper, just say it.”

Cora fidgets like she can’t get comfortable, her eyes flitting from me to Glenn to her plate.

“It’s just. You know. The whole thing—this wig. Those terrible things she was saying that day in your room.”

“I was saying them, too.”

“That’s my point. Maybe she’s not the best influence—”

I push my chair back from the table.

“You were the one who made me go to group. You told me to make friends. Now they’re not the right friends? You’re giving me whiplash.”

“It’s just, Glenn is right: Piper has a big personality,” Cora says, her eyes drifting over my pink hair reluctantly. “I don’t want you to lose yourself in it.”

“It’s just a wig, Cora. It’s still me under here. Trust me—there’s no escaping that.”

Glenn and Cora look at each other across the table, a silent conversation taking place about what to say next. I get tired of waiting.

“May I be excused?”

Glenn nods. I leave the magazine next to my half-eaten dinner.