Her hospital became unbearable with too many people knowing what she did to me, so she moved. Last I heard, she’s holed up somewhere in Vegas, exchanging cash for coins at casinos. A desert far away from any knowledge of her past.

Or any memory of me.

It feels like I’m still on the island. Like I never escaped. My therapist helped me understand that my conversion therapy goes beyond the borders of Nightlight—that the world is my island. I was in conversion therapy before the island, and I’m still in conversion therapy today. The point is control, and for years, my mother has tried to control me, my behavior, who I am, what I do. That’s why my pain didn’t end when the Reverend died. It was my mom. It was always my mom. She controls me, even after disowning me. After everything she’s done, I still texted her Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas, I texted.

“Murderer,” Mom replies and hangs up.

I regain consciousness on the floor. I can’t breathe. Hysterical, body-wracking sobs clog my nostrils as I battle the familiar storm. My throat emits childish, choking noises as Marcos climbs on me and pets my cheek. “It’s okay,” he soothes, grappling with his own panic over what’s happening. “You’re okay. We won’t let anything happen to you. You’re safe. Jesus, Connor, why’d you have to text her?”

Christmas was me and my mom’s special time. It’s warm and yummy and makes her miss my grandma. I thought…maybe…I could reach her today. But the woman who took off my socks and warmed my feet after coming in from the snow isn’t the same person anymore. She’s something else now. Like it did to the Reverend, and to me, Nightlight changed her.

Mom loved me. Then she got lost. And the more I chase after her, the likelier I’ll get lost too.

Thunderous footsteps approach outside until my bedroom door blasts open on its hinges. Marcos leaps off me to meet the blond, middle-aged woman striding inside—the only person besides Marcos who calms my heart purely on sight. “Evelyn, I’m sorry, the coffee spilled over there,” Marcos confesses rapidly, snapping his fingers click-click-click.

“BooBoo, it’s just coffee,” Evelyn tells Marcos as she races over to me on the floor. “What happened?”

“His mom called him.” Marcos swallows the words he would rather use to describe my mom, the woman responsible for the four days I spent homeless in Chicago.

Evelyn’s cool, manicured touch pets my hair in long strokes, but she is far less picky about her words than Marcos. “I’m gonna kill her,” she growls.

“Evelyn…” Marcos warns, but he’s too late. Her five-year-old daughter wanders into the room to gawp as I gulp manic breaths.

“Did Connor fall down and hurt himself?” the girl asks.