“Helena,” Dad says.

Before this escalates any further, Vera cuts in. “Why don’t I talk to Remy alone,” she says. We all stare at her blankly. We’d forgotten she was there. “Let’s go for a drive.”

In her car, she doesn’t say anything when I lower the window and light a cigarette, doesn’t tell me to put it out or ask me if I’m old enough to have them. My hand shakes as I smoke, my entire body unsteady. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to exist.

“They’re just worried,” Vera says about my parents as she starts her car. We can still hear them from the driveway, their words faint but heated.

“No, that’s pretty much how they always are,” I say, my voice flat. I am on the edge of falling asleep but I am also wide-awake. I feel dizzy, spinning between the two states.

Vera doesn’t respond, pulling out of our driveway. It’s almost four in the morning and we’re the only car on the road. The world seems both dead and infinite. We have four hours, five tops, before we’re due at the police station. Elise was held for questioning, but they released me into the custody of my parents. I was covered in blood, I wasn’t the shooter, so they allowed me to return for questioning in the morning.

“So, Remy, why don’t I explain what we can expect this morning when we go in?”

Somewhere in the back of my mind I remember that today is Monday. I have a physics test I didn’t study for, on classical mechanics, the laws of gravity and motion—the laws that govern how the stars in a galaxy move and how a gun discharges.

“They’ll start by reading you your juvenile Miranda rights.” Vera briefly recites the lines that remind me of crime shows on TV, and I can’t believe this is real life. “Then someone will take your statement,” she continues. “A detective, usually, but possibly a police officer. It’s important to remain calm. First impressions do matter.”

Her voice comes in and out of focus as I smoke and stare at the streetlights that glide past us. The air is cool on my face and the tears fall freely. I am wrung dry, inside and out, incapable of feeling anything and overwhelmed all at once. My mind has shut down in self-preservation. I feel nothing but still the tears come.

“Tell me what happened. All of it. Don’t leave anything out. I’m on your side,” she says. “What you say to me stays in this car. But you have to tell me everything.”

I don’t answer.

“Remy?” Vera says, her voice a soothing balm. I turn to face her. She looks tired but her thick, dark hair is pinned into a knot and her blouse is free of wrinkles, lipstick perfect. I wonder where my mother found her, why she picked up the phone at three in the morning, why she’s here with me instead of in bed. “I know we just met but I need you to trust me. I need you to help me help you. I need you to tell me what happened.”