“I don’t want to be there more! I want to be home.” I get what she’s saying, but Bree sinks onto the bed with deliberate slowness, like she’s barely keeping her frustration in check. “Will you please call Mom, please?” Hazel asks. “Say you’re sorry, and maybe she’ll come back.”

“Hazel, I promise, she’s either working or at one of her friends’ houses. She will be. Home. Later.” Bree exhales through her nose, studying her sister’s slumped posture, her little bird-bone clavicles jutting against the scoop neck of her T-shirt. “Maybe it would be okay if you came with me after school. Sometimes. Not every day.”

Hazel sniffs, glancing over. “I thought you said I’m not old enough.”

“You’re not. But if it’ll keep you from losing your mind over nothing . . .” Bree glances at me. Not sure if I should give a thumbs-up or something; I’m just glad the fighting’s over, that nobody’s on the brink of explosion anymore. “Dad is not an option. I need you to be clear on that.” Hazel nods a little. “Say okay.”

“Okay, okay.” She kicks halfheartedly at a fuzzy slipper poking out from under the bed skirt.

Bree kicks it, too, making it flop over. She presses her shoulder against Hazel’s.

I try to leave without them noticing, reaching the back door before I hear Bree behind me. “You don’t have to go.” She stands at the end of the hallway.

“It’s cool. I should get home.” I smile. “Maybe there’s some frozen pizza left.”

Bree goes to a drawer, hands me a piece of gum from a pack. “For your breath.” It takes me a second—oh, yeah. The whiskey.

Dad left the light on above the stoop for me. Something flutters there, ticking against the glass globe; something big, agitated. I don’t look, ducking through the door and shutting it hard behind me. Being stalked by Mothra is a little too much for one night.

I turn, and Dad’s sitting at the kitchen table, staring, like my entrance has left him speechless. “Hi.” Remembering my mud-caked sneakers, I stay on the mat, carefully pulling them off with one finger.

Dad’s got a coffee cup on the place mat, a stack of bills, and the checkbook. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” I’m so glad Ma’s not home: her radar would be pinging like crazy right now. Dad’s range is smaller, less intrusive.

“You eat yet?” he says.

When I shake my head, he gets up and takes a tinfoil-wrapped plate out of the fridge. I think of my breath and don’t get too close. “Next time, give me a heads-up if you’re not going to be home for supper. I’ll give you some money before you leave for school. You gotta eat.”