“I’m not gone yet,” I say, and smoosh in next to her on the couch for a quick hug before I head for the door, taking the deep ache in my chest with me. I still don’t know what I’m going to do with all the broken pieces of my life. I don’t know how I will ever be okay.

At Will’s, I park on the street and trudge up the steep path to the front door, evading the creepy half-eroded garden gnome on the steps. I ring the bell, and a series of terrifying sounds echoes from the other side of the door until Dylan finally answers it with one of his friends alongside him, both of them on inline skates and padded up like a couple of miniature Jaegers, carrying foam hockey sticks that look capable of vast amounts of damage.

“Hey, Sam!” Dylan says. “Will’s in the dungeon.” Behind him, his friend swings around his hockey stick, punctuating each motion with sound effects that indicate some sort of nebulous violence about to be visited upon the hapless flower arrangement nearby. They zoom off down the hall, skates clattering over the hardwood floors, leaving me to close the door behind myself.

“No skating in the kitchen!” I hear Will’s mom call from the living room.

And even though the house is one hockey puck short of total chaos, a sonic boom of loss pounds in my chest. Maybe my home was supposed to be like this, too. Instead, it’s always felt too quiet, too regimented — empty somehow, like there was something missing. For a long time I thought it was because Dad left, but now I know it’s so much more.

I scurry to the left and take the familiar stairs down to the basement, skipping over the creaky one.

Will’s already on the couch playing a platformer puzzle game that I in no way have enough patience for, and his hair looks like Kitty has been making bird nests in it with her tongue. The familiarity of his face pulls me back from the edge a little.

“Hey, Sam!” He hits pause on the game and turns to look at me as I plop down on the couch beside him. “Whoa. Are you okay?” His expression morphs from its usual easygoing smile into a frown of deep concern. I must look like shit.

No doubt my eyes still have dark circles under them from the rough weekend. I stare at the blue earthenware bowl of musty potpourri sitting under the TV and try to figure out how to even begin explaining.