Yes. That. All of that.

I try to remember anything about her. All those little good things mixed into the sea of bad. But it’s all gone. Wiped clean. I can’t even think. I can’t focus. My heart is racing and my skin feels cold, and I know Bear thinks I’m strong, and I know Otter thinks I’m brave, and I know I’m Dom’s because we’re inevitable, we’re all so inevitable. But it doesn’t stop my chest from hurting. My lungs from shriveling. My throat from constricting. The ground shifts beneath my feet. Everything’s bright, so very, very bright. I can’t do this, I can’t fucking do this and I—

Hey, Bear says.

Hey, yourself, I say back.

All you need to do is breathe, he says.

Just breathe.

In.

Hold, one, two, three.

Out.

Hold, one, two, three….

She’s in the kitchen, her back to us. Black pants. White shirt. An apron around her waist. I hear the flick of a lighter. An inhalation of breath. A sigh. Smoke drifts up above her head. She opens a window above the sink. Blows smoke out. It’s too fucking bright in here. It feels too real.

She opens the fridge and stares into it. Almost empty. Closes the door. Opens the freezer. Closes it. Opens the cupboard. There’s a bottle of Jack, half-empty, sitting on the shelf. She stares at it. Takes another drag. Blows out smoke. Takes the Jack down and sets it on the counter.

“Izzie!” she calls.

“What?” Izzie says quietly from my side.

She doesn’t turn “Where’s my mug? The one I use. It’s not in the living room.”

“Cleaned it,” she says. “It’s where it always is when I clean it.”

“That mouth,” she says. “Watch it, girlie.”

“Mom—”

“This guy,” she laughs, and I think I might lose my mind, “came into the diner. Drunk off his ass. Made a mess of the table. Sitting there and just hollering about this and that.” She pulls the mug that I just dried minutes before from the cupboard. A couple of ice cubes go into it, just like I knew they would. “And then he tries to flirt with me, and I say I know his type.” A splash of Jack. “I don’t have time for his type.” Maybe a little more than a splash. “But then he says he don’t care. He’s seen me and he wants to know more.” She snorts as she raises the mug to her lips. “Drove a big old truck,” she says and takes a drink. “Lights across the top.” Her throat works. “Eventually got kicked out. Gave me his number, though.” Another drink. A drag on the smoke. “Who knows, kiddo? Maybe I’ll call him. I deserve a break.”

It’s like I’m five, I’m five years old and nothing has changed and nothing will ever change ever again.

Except there’s a queer sensation in my head when she turns, because she doesn’t fit what I have in my head from five years old. It’s still her; of course it is. I know that voice, even if I haven’t heard it in a decade. It’s like it’s imprinted in my head and I can hear her through the storm, and she’s saying things like, Get me my lighter, Kid, and I have a headache, Ty, keep your voice down, and, Bear, take your brother out or something, okay? I can’t watch him today. I’m not feeling well. I don’t care if you have to go to work! Take him to Anna’s! Or to the Thompsons’! Lord knows Alice doesn’t work. Must be nice, having all that money.