“It’s called walking depression.” Vera picked at another splinter on the table, not wanting to sound like a premed know-it-all, but she did work at a hospital. She wanted to specialize in psychiatry one day. “They go about their lives to ‘do it for the team’—or the town, in this case—but inside, they’re counting the seconds until they can go home and pull the covers over their heads.”

“God, isn’t that everybody?” Maxwell huffed. He smiled like he was kidding, but it didn’t sound like he was.

No, Maxwell, it’s not. Vera’s chest ached for him. “It sounds like your mom had gotten a little better. She’s been sober a while?”

“Four years. The car accident was rock bottom. And counseling worked. Then she dove into self-help.” He picked at a packet of sugar with a chewed nail, looking uncomfortable. “She was in TSC. You know them? She’s got the yellow hat and everything.”

“I’ve been seeing them everywhere lately. Some of my coworkers are into it.” She thought about the books popping up in janitor carts and on reception desks. “I hear it’s expensive.”

“Yeah, I freaked. I mean, the restaurant’s not exactly rolling in cash. But my mom was able to renegotiate our debt and practically saved the place. She said it was all because of the almighty Sunshine Crew. They taught her the ‘communication and assertiveness skills’ she needed to make it happen.” He sounded like a phony sales pitch as he smirked condescendingly.

“What do you think really happened?”

“I think my dad was a lifelong customer of the bank, and he graduated from high school with the new manager. But whatever, if my mom wants to credit TSC, fine. Either way, the place got back in the black, and the group made her happy.”

His lips pursed as his heavy gaze moved toward the ocean. Vera wrung her hands, wanting to touch him, comfort him. Kids their age shouldn’t have lives this tragic or problems this massive.

“You wanna talk about last night?” she asked, almost hating to bring it up.

“I’m not sure where to begin.” Maxwell flicked his gaze her way, his eyes intense and the color jarring—pale wet sand with rims dark and stormy. Vera’s cheeks flushed.

Then he drew a long breath and told her about the unsettling smell of lilies and his sister leaving their mother chocolate. It wasn’t until he recited the words It is through suffering that we reach a pure state of being and Death is just sleep that Vera’s stomach sank. Those were Mr. Gonzalez’s words. Again.

“Did you find flowers in her room? The source of the smell?” she asked.

“I checked this morning, and there were no flowers. At all. But I swear I could still smell lilies. I’m not making this up. I hate that scent. It reminds me so much of my dad, and the pollen makes me gag.” He clucked his tongue. “That stench was there.”

Vera smelled something similar in Mr. Gonzalez’s room, only it didn’t make sense.