The night goes cold around me. Cold and bitter. I shiver.

She shrugs. “Funny how being back here brings it all to the surface.”

“Hilarious.”

She shakes her head, then raises her bottle to me. “All right. You ready to do this?”

“I’m ready.”

We chug our beers, then step to the edge of the platform. We count down. Five, four, three, two, one. We hurl our bottles onto the tracks. We listen to the sound of shattering glass, to the music of something breaking outside ourselves.

Then we yell. We whoop and holler and laugh and stomp and spin.

I wait to welcome the freedom I felt doing this at seventeen, but it isn’t coming. Because it’s not enough. This petty destruction. It’s just not enough. I look at Mia, searching for some hint that maybe she’s come to the same understanding, but her back is to me.

“Pretty sky tonight,” she says. “Pretty moon. Don’t you think?”

“Sure. Another round?”

We each have another beer, share another cigarette. Reminisce. But it’s hard for me to be present, to focus on the conversation instead of how eager I am to smash something else. It’s got me on edge. I lie and tell Mia I’m tired, even though it’s only eight thirty. She doesn’t tease me about it; she puts her arm around me and offers to take me home.

When she drops me off, she says, “Let’s do this again soon.”

“Yeah. I’ll call you.”

“Pinkie swear?”

I reach over and we link pinkies.

“This is legally binding,” she says.

“Oh, I know.”

I hop out of the car, and we blow each other kisses. It’s only after she drives away that I realize Scarlett’s car isn’t in the driveway.

She’s not back yet.

She should be back.

I take my phone out and call her.

No answer.

I call again.

Still nothing.

Mom should be in the air by now, but I try her anyway.

“Rory, hi.”

“Hi. Did your flight get delayed or something? Scarlett’s not back yet and I was—”

“Scarlett was having some pains on the way to the airport, so I took her to the hospital.”

There’s a sharp, concerning sound, and I realize that, reckless in my distress, I’ve cracked my phone screen with my razor of a thumbnail, my grip too tight.

“Actually, baby, could you come and bring a change of clothes for her? Sorry. I have to go. Please come.”

She hangs up.

I run inside, up the stairs to Scarlett’s room, the sound of my footsteps echoing through the quiet house. I open Scarlett’s drawers and pull out a black tunic and a pair of maternity leggings, some underwear, a bra. I grab my bag and shove the clothes inside. I’m scrambling, not paying attention, and I trip on my way down the steps.

I land on my feet at the bottom, but the impact makes the house cry out. Frames fall from the walls. One of Scarlett’s taxidermy birds hangs loose off its mount, and I nearly lunge for it, an ugly instinct taking over, eclipsing me for a moment. I force myself out the door and to my car. I force myself to forget how close I just was to devouring a stuffed dead bird. I force myself to ignore the bloom of hunger. I wipe the saliva from my chin and go.