“Of course she isn’t.” Emma blinks a few times, her lips forming around some new words, but I can’t possibly listen to what she has to say. My heart is pounding too hard.

“As soon as she gets clean, I’ll be back with her. It takes a while, but she’s working on it.”

The intensity of my voice fills up the space between us. “Mason, I didn’t mean…”

She raises her arms, and I see a flash of her tattoo. It’s like being struck by a small amount of lightning. It pulls the words from my mouth. “Sometimes it takes addicts dozens of times trying before sobriety sticks. Sometimes people get better.”

Long pause. The only sound is coming from the girls shouting in the backyard, our eyes fixed on each other. She isn’t backing down, and I’m not either, even though my racing pulse wants me to.

“Sometimes they do,” she says quietly.

I hate that “sometimes.” It’s placating and uncertain. It makes my feet leave Earth. My mom is going to conquer her addiction because she has to. We are meant to be together. There’s no way she’s gone from my life. My mom getting better is not a maybe. It’s an eventuality. It’s what keeps the stars hanging in the sky. It’s what makes the Earth spin. I don’t need a box of random high school mementos. I need to get to her.

Any good feelings that built up with Emma at Salem Willows are erased. Washed away.

I hold out the box, but she doesn’t take it. She doesn’t move at all. “Keep it,” she says. “In case you change your mind.”

I’m not going to change my mind, but the fight is draining out of me. All I want is for her to leave.

“Fine,” I manage. Then, as she reaches for the doorknob, a stubborn flicker of hope moves into my field of vision, forcing my words out. “Emma, do you know where she is?”

She pauses and turns back, and I see the answer in her eyes before she says it. “No. I’m sorry, Mason. I lost contact with her at the same time the foster care system did.”

Her answer isn’t a surprise, but it hits me hard anyway. I wish I thought she was lying, but her eyes are too clear for that. Emma is a dead end, just like everybody else. Why do I keep doing this to myself?

She nods at me, then walks down the hall, and I force myself to turn around, close the door. The box weighs a thousand emotional pounds, and I have never wanted to hold anything less.