“Is OCD hereditary?” I’m afraid to hear the answer.

“Anxiety disorders do tend to run in families. And my mom . . .” She shakes her head. “She has so many routines — you can’t even believe how many. And if I mess with any of them or do something wrong, it’s a disaster. I can’t have someone over to the house. Like, ever.”

I stare at her. “Oh my god — same. Nobody comes to my house. Not anymore.” I shudder, remembering the last time. The event that put a wall between Cammie and me that has never fully come down.

She stares back, then looks down. “I never would have thought I had anything in common with Zoe Miller.”

She says my name like I’m famous or something. “Why?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “You’re just . . . You’re kind of a prominent figure at West Hills.”

I scoff. “I am not.”

“You are,” she says seriously, glancing up. “You’re beautiful and talented, and everyone admires you. And you have the best singing voice I’ve ever heard.”

My cheeks warm, and I wonder when she’s heard me sing. Probably my solo at eighth-grade graduation. I never see her at high school shows, or really anywhere, for that matter.

“I never knew you were so nice,” she says. She looks down again.

I’m a little jarred at first, because I would have thought everybody thinks I’m nice — I certainly always try to be. But then I look at this from Sam’s point of view. It sounds like she’s not accustomed to kindness, and the thought makes my heart hurt for her.

She looks at me, then hesitates. “What did you mean about your brother being sent away?”

My chest aches even more with the reminder of what’s happening, and she sees it right away — I can tell by her panicked expression.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“No, it’s okay.” I want to tell her about it, for some incomprehensible reason. The thing I never want to talk about to anyone, I maybe want to share with Sam Jones. “He’s disabled. Like, super disabled. And I just found out we’re sending him away to live in a facility.” The thought of hugging Jonah goodbye and walking away from him makes my eyes well up again, and this poor girl looks like a deer in headlights.

“Oh,” she says, so softly I barely hear it.