“How ’bout mac ’n’ cheese for dinner?” he asked.

“Nope. Peanut butter and jelly.”

“I think we’re out.”

Chloe turned his way, eyes tight. “I want peanut butter and jelly.”

Max ground his teeth.

“Fine, I’ll check the cabinet.” He knew it was empty. He hadn’t bought any groceries recently, and his mother definitely hadn’t. She barely left her room.

He marched to the kitchen, past a bookshelf overflowing with self-help tomes. Mom bobbed from lifestyle blogs about organic eating, to yoga, to meditation, to mindfulness, to podcasts on living your “optimal life” and finding “happiness within,” to large-scale arena events with high-priced gurus, to powering crystals in the moonlight, to her latest—the Sunshine Crew, TSC for short. It was a local group that not only advertised with cheesy yellow hats and T-shirts, but it was started by the family at the center of the town’s worst tragedy, at the center of his family’s tragedy. Creating this group seemed to be their way of atoning. Max didn’t agree, nor could he understand how his mom swallowed any of it, but it was better than downing a bottle of booze or a handful of pills, so Max let it go.

That was, until lately.

He yanked open the cabinet door: crackers, Cheetos, a can of coffee. No peanut butter.

He dropped his head.

The store was a mile away. He could run there and be back before Chloe’s movie ended. His legs needed it anyway. So did his brain.

He peered down the hallway, a pendulum clock ticking behind him. His mother’s door was at the far end, closed, dark, and silent.

He grabbed his sneakers.

Max cradled the plastic jar of peanut butter in his arm like a football as he jogged down Main Street, dodging potholes. A streetlight flicked red, and he kept pace at the curb, maintaining his heart rate while he waited at the light. He swiped sweat from his brow as a horn blared. His head jerked in time to see a woman backpedal to the opposite curb, having stepped into oncoming traffic, her eyes blinking with shock, as though she hadn’t expected cars to be driving on a busy boulevard. Max rolled his eyes. The woman kept blinking, adjusting her canary-yellow baseball hat—the same one his mother owned, featuring a cheesy eclipsed sun. Man, that group was everywhere.

The sign shifted to Walk and Max dashed across the street, the hospital looming ahead of him.

Vera worked there. His classmates whispered about the irony all the time: Vera Martinez, the girl with the “death disease,” worked part-time at Roaring Creek General. Max actually found it relatable. Not a lot of his friends had part-time jobs, but with a family restaurant, Max began working when he was old enough to fold paper menus.

He eyed the hospital’s sliding doors. If he wanted to talk to her, if he really wanted to continue what he’d tried to start in school, he could. It wouldn’t be too hard to find her schedule.