“What? Going already?” I laugh and it sounds like it’s coming from another person. Something’s come unlatched. I can’t stop. “Why don’t you come in for some tea, Dad? We’ll have a talk.”

“Irene’s boy’s got a band recital,” he says, staring me down. “I want to be there.”

“I told her she looks like Mom,” I say, getting closer. “But Mom was prettier. And she had the good sense to leave you.”

I see his hand coming like it’s slow. Tobacco stains on the tips of his fingers and every line in his palm. All I can see is that hand—it eclipses the sun—but I can’t make myself move out of the way. I’m a corpse again. Corpses can’t move.

— Chapter 6 —

I pack everything. I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t know how I’m getting there, but anything that could be useful gets thrown in a garbage bag—three cans of baked beans, two and a half boxes of Pop-Tarts, the last Coke, toothpaste, flashlights, fuel cans for a camping cookstove that came with the motorhome and doesn’t even work. I need supplies. Reinforcements. Survival tools. I wish the damn motorhome had a freaking motor and I could just drive it away.

When one bag is full, I tie the end on itself and throw it up front. Before I even get to the bedroom, I can barely see out the windshield. I didn’t know we had this much stuff.

The world is ending, or at least I’m done with it. I keep thinking I need a plan, but so far, this is it: shove everything in bags.

In the bedroom, I take the lumpy pillows; all the clothes in the closet, even the ones that aren’t mine; and the pilled pink blanket with fraying satin trim.

Do I need sheets? I do need sheets. You can use them for things like escaping from windows or pulling a person out of a ditch. I picture myself hanging by my hands off a bent sapling, bare feet dangling over a ravine with a river raging below.

I wish I had someone to come with me, pull me out if I get stuck. Tie the sheet around your waist, April, before you get too close to the edge, I tell myself. Tie the other end to a tree. There’s the plan. No falling in ditches without a lifeline. You can’t afford to. I wad up the sheets and the mattress pad and jam them in the bag.

I take my mom’s ring out from under the mattress and shove it in my pocket. The box digs into my thigh, but that’s good. I know it’s there.