“Let’s go and explore the rest of the town,” I say, trying to move everyone on, trying to get away. But Mum is gazing at me, her brow all wrinkled up.

“Becky, love…” she says gently. “This isn’t you. What’s happened to you, love? What’s going on inside?”

There’s something about hearing Mum’s kind voice, the voice I’ve been listening to since before I was born: It seems to wriggle past all my defenses, all the other voices, and get to the kernel of me. I can’t not listen to her. And I can’t not reply. This is my mum.

“It’s just…you know,” I say at last. “I messed up. All this trouble was my fault. So…” I swallow hard, avoiding everyone’s eye. “You know. So I don’t deserve to—” I break off and rub my nose. “Anyway. It’s fine. It’s all good. I’m supposed to be stopping shopping. So.”

“Not like this!” says Mum in horror. “Not like this, punishing yourself! I never heard of such a thing! Is this what they told you at that center? You don’t deserve to buy a pencil?”

“Well, not exactly,” I admit after a pause.

The truth is, at Golden Peace they said it was all about “getting shopping in proportion” and “spending meaningfully” and that the aim was to “find a balance.” Maybe “finding a balance” isn’t really my strong point.

Now Mum is glancing at Suze and Dad, as though for support. “I don’t care what happened in L.A.!” she says hotly. “What I can see in front of me is a young lady who’s dropped everything to help her friend…” She starts counting off. “Who found the address of Corey, thought of a way to get through to Raymond…What else?”

“Saw through Alicia,” adds Suze.

“Exactly!” says Mum. “Exactly! You’ve been a little star, Becky! You don’t need to feel guilty!”

“Becky, why do you think this trip is all your fault?” puts in Dad.

“Well, you know!” I say desperately. “Because I should have gone to see Brent sooner; then he wouldn’t have been evicted and he wouldn’t have disappeared….”

“Becky.” Dad puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me with his wise-Dad gaze. “Not for one moment have I blamed you for this. Brent disappeared for many reasons. The truth is, he didn’t need to leave. I’d paid off his arrears and the rent on his trailer for the next year.”

He…what?

I stare at Dad, staggered—then almost at once realize: Well, of course Dad would have done something lovely like that.

“But his daughter never said…”

“His daughter may not have known.” Dad sighs. “These matters are complex, Becky, and that’s no one’s fault. And the idea that you would blame yourself for everything—it’s appalling.”

“Oh,” I say feebly. I don’t know what else to say. It’s like a great rock is rolling off me.

“And in light of this”—Dad steps forward—“please, my darling, let me buy you a pencil. You certainly deserve it.”