Bree doesn’t answer right away. “Doing stuff. What’s—?”

“You’re supposed to text! If you’re going to be late, you’re supposed to text, or call, or something!”

“It’s not even seven thirty yet—”

“I don’t care.” Hazel sniffs, eyes wet, accusatory. “She still hasn’t come home. I left a message and she hasn’t called back.”

“So?” Bree shuts the door with a single push, gaze focused on her sneakers as she pulls them off without bending, toe prying heel. “She probably decided to work a double or something. Not like she doesn’t know her way back here.”

Hazel shakes her head, lips pressed together, then turns and goes down the hall, her hair bouncing across her back. Bree stares after, listening to the sounds of drawers opening, things being slammed around; then she follows, with me trailing behind.

Bree goes into Hazel’s room—blindingly pink, spontaneous princess combustion—watching her sister dump clothes into her dance bag. “What’re you doing?”

Hazel keeps packing. “Going to Dad’s.”

“No. You’re not.” Deadly precise diction.

“At least he comes home! And makes supper and does dishes and stuff!”

“Two days a week, Hazel. Saturday and Sunday he can keep his shit together long enough to remember you’re alive, and you want to go running to him?”

“Well, you can come, too!”

“I’m not going there!” Bree’s shout makes my shoulders jump involuntarily; it rips out of her, foreign from those controlled lips.

Hazel keeps her gaze down, reaching back for more clothes. Bree yanks Hazel’s hand from the drawer, pulls the bag away, throws it.

Hazel sobs, shoving at her, and Bree uses her off-balance attempt to force Hazel back onto the bed so hard the springs shriek— “Bree,” I hear myself say, starting forward—

But Bree doesn’t hit her. She pulls Hazel into a sitting position, gripping her upper arms, and gets in her face, speaking low and fast: “You cannot go to Dad’s. Even if you called him for a ride, he probably wouldn’t come. He works nights, and it’s a long drive. So forget it.”

Hazel weeps, her shoulders shaking, hair falling into her face. I step forward, sick with how much I want to help. Bree stares at her, letting seconds tick by, then reaches over and pulls a handful of tissues from the box on the nightstand, holding them under Hazel’s nose, no softening in her expression. “Blow. Before you drown.”

After a stubborn moment, Hazel takes them, making a couple delicate honks before she tries to speak. “You guys are never home. If I’m not at dance or Jasmine’s, I’m stuck here by myself, and it sucks.”

“So hang out at Jasmine’s more. Her mom loves you. She won’t care.”