“In this apartment? No!” She begins to close the door, but I quickly put my hand out to stop her.

“In this apartment building. She lived here with someone named Marcus, I think. She’s tall and she has long black hair. She’s…” An addict. Has let me down over and over.

The woman’s scowl deepens. “You can’t be here. You can’t just be standing around in our halls. I don’t know why they let you all be here. I know about the drugs.”

She thinks I’m an addict. Which means two things: one, she probably does know about my mom, and two, Mom’s still using. Of course she is, but it hits me hard anyway. What was I expecting? A fairy tale? That I’d find her in this apartment with a steady job and a fridge full of groceries? I shake my head quickly. I can’t deal with that now. Once I find her, I’ll figure out what to do. “It’s not like that. I’m supposed to meet her here, and—”

She points at me. “I’ll call the police! Don’t think I won’t.”

I put my hand against the wall, trying to steady myself. “Naomi is my mother. I’m…” I take a deep breath. “I’m trying to find her.”

Her eyes widen behind her glasses. “God help you,” she mutters. “But you can’t be standing in the hallway. Get out of here before I call the police.” Then she slams the door. My knees give out, and I sink down to a crouch, my heart pounding.

“Mom,” I say loudly. The word rips out of me. I’m not calling her, I’m yelling at her. Mom, why did you do this to me? Why am I standing in this hall? Why can’t you get your life together?

Rage carries me to my feet. I stand up and yell her name again. “Naomi! Naomi Greer!” I walk up and down the halls. “Naomi.”

It’s useless. It has always been useless. I throw my bag to the ground, kick it so hard it flies down the hall. I have to get out of here, before someone calls the police, before the lady comes back out, before I completely lose it and start punching holes in the wall.

I’ve just picked up my backpack and am rushing down the hall when I hear a door open, and then my name.

“Mason?”

I freeze. The voice is different than I remember. Cracklier. Raspier. But I remember it with every cell in my body. I force myself to turn around. Her hair is cut short, shorter than mine, and she’s wearing a faded flowered dress with flip-flops. She looks awful, thin, with sunken eyes and cheekbones, arms and legs skinny as twigs. This woman is a mere shadow of my mom.

But it’s her.