“I’m sorry,” I managed, finally. It wasn’t even close to enough, but what else was there to say?

“Forget it.” Cal flapped a hand at me and then split open the fish’s belly, slippery guts falling into the water.

I knew we’d never mention it again because that wasn’t Cal’s way. He wasn’t the type to nurse grievances and fling them back at you on some later date. But I knew that this moment would always be there between us like a sharp rock in your shoe, making some steps perfectly normal and others destined to bring a stab of tender pain so that you always have to walk carefully, just in case. The knowledge broke my heart, but I’d had to ask the question. This was bigger than me and Cal. This was about Junie. And I’d hurt myself, and anyone else, a thousand different ways if it meant I could give her some kind of justice.

ELEVEN

No one ever tells you about the time you lose. The well-meaning bring food or send flowers. The worried check you for signs you might hurt yourself and squirrel away the pills and guns. The professionals press slick pamphlets into your hands. Lists of support groups and 800 numbers. Signs that prove your grieving is normal. Lack of appetite. Sleeping too much or not at all. Anger. Depression. Hopelessness. But there’s nothing about the way time slips away from you, minutes lost staring at the back of a blond child ahead of you on the sidewalk, seconds ticking past while you stand holding a fresh-from-the-dryer T-shirt that your daughter once wore. Brain blank and empty as a dark room, just her name—Junie Junie Junie—running in an endless loop of longing.

I don’t know how much time had passed with me staring into the open freezer section at the grocery store. Long enough that my face felt numb from cold, not so long that an employee had asked me if I was all right. I wasn’t hungry, my appetite having disappeared along with my daughter. All my clothes hanging loose, jeans held up by the jutting bones of my hips. But eating felt like something Junie would want me to do, so I stood, staring blankly at the colorful boxes of frozen dinners. Chicken, pasta, Salisbury steak. Waiting for something to click in my head, tell me which one to reach for.

And then the thing I’d been anticipating, the hand on my shoulder. The tentative voice in my ear. “Hey, are you okay?” But when I turned my head, it was Zach Logan standing there, his brow creased with concern. I let go of the freezer door and took a stumbling step back from him, his hand sliding down my arm and away.

“I’m fine.” I waved my fingers toward the freezer. “Nothing sounds good.”

“I know,” Zach said. “Everything tastes like cardboard to me. But it’s important to eat. You have to keep your strength up.”

I wondered if he and Cal had gotten together, formulated a script between them to keep me eating. Wondered if Jenny was getting the same pressure to stick a fork in her mouth.