“Felicia just called,” he said. “It’s Crissy.”

My heart seized. Crissy. I saw her full face and midriff-baring shirts, gum cracking between candy-scented lips. But no, that was Crissy at almost sixteen, the girl at the drive-in who dwelled in my memory.

In the background, a muffled sob. “What is it?” I said. “What happened?”

“She’s at the hospital.” Dismay bled through the cracks in Doug’s voice. “She was found unconscious in her living room half an hour ago. It looks like an overdose.”

THIRTY-FOUR

It was early afternoon when I got to St. Albans. I’d done the drive to Vermont and back so many times over the past few days it had become rote. That left me with nothing to do but worry.

There were times when I hated my mind for refusing to power down, and this was one of them. I’d missed my evaluation by hours, hit decline on three calls from my counselor. I would reschedule or . . . something. If they didn’t reinstate me . . .

Don’t think that way.

Focus on Crissy.

Eager as I was to get inside Northwestern Medical Center, I did a five-minute meditation session via Gasko’s app before leaving my car. I’d been hospitalized after my abduction, checked over for physical injuries while the benzodiazepine in my blood was analyzed and recorded in my patient file, and the dichotomy between clean white sheets and unimaginable gore still sends my body into full revolt. As I approached the front desk for information, I held my breath against the odor of disinfectant spray, cafeteria food, and bodily fluids. It assaulted my senses anyway, and within minutes, a familiar woozy, weak-kneed sensation was back.

The elevator opened on the waiting room with a ding, and I spotted my parents sitting with Doug. Felicia stared blankly at the TV on the wall. The Food Network was playing on mute. My parents clambered up when they saw me, hugged me so hard it hurt. Doug did the same, and undeniably felt me stiffen in his arms. When I pulled back, he looked down at me with despair.

I turned to Felicia. “How is she?”

My aunt clasped my mother’s hand.

“We’re waiting to hear,” said my father. “The doctors don’t yet know what she took or how long she was unconscious.”

A parade of potential side effects marched through my head. Respiratory failure. Brain damage. Death. “Who’s got the boys?”

Mom’s eyes drifted to her sister, and I regretted the question at once. “They’ll go to a neighbor’s after school,” Dad said. “Standing plans for a playdate, thank goodness.” I inferred the rest from the look on his face. Not to their grandmother’s. Crissy wouldn’t allow it.

Behind me, I heard the sound of the elevator again. This time, the doors opened on Suze and Robbie. Robbie held a paper carrier warping under the weight of several to-go coffees and wore a sympathetic smile.