“She’s really good, isn’t she? I used to think I was biased, but her talent is undeniable. I keep telling her if she keeps it up, her work could be in a gallery one day.”

Maybe that was part of it. Maybe Becca was too pushy, expected too much. She insisted Ash take her studies seriously, insisted she take the photography classes and continue her volunteer work. Virginia was the same, always pushing Becca and Robbie. Be better. Do better. Work harder. Maybe this was Becca’s fault. She kept clicking through photos, hundreds zipping by.

“Wait, Becs, go back. That’s her,” Christian said.

Becca swiped back and saw Ash. She usually preferred to be on the other side of the camera, always refusing to allow Becca to take pictures. This time she made an exception. The image was taken at dusk, against the backdrop of a brick wall. Ash’s eyes were sparkling, a radiant smile on her face as she looked up at a tall, gangly teenage boy. Their fingers were intertwined, the two of them regarding one another with expressions of pure, unabashed love.

Becca’s hand trembled as she leaned forward for a closer look. She saw the tattoo on the inside of his wrist, the same tattoo she’d seen on Ash’s wrist. She studied the boy’s face, and gasped. Becca knew this boy.

No. No. No. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Becca’s face flushed, her breathing taking on a strangled quality.

“Becca, what is it? What’s wrong?” Christian asked.

She couldn’t seem to speak, her words catching in her throat. Becca couldn’t remember when she had her last panic attack, but she recognized its anatomy instantly, the dizziness, the tightness building in her chest, her limbs going numb. She couldn’t breathe in this cramped, airless room, and she couldn’t stare at these goddamn photos any longer. Becca leapt to her feet and raced toward the door, desperate for air, desperate to escape the reality of what was happening. Ash was in danger, and it was all Becca’s fault.

BECCA

BECCA

Becca dodged the mission residents as she raced down the long corridor. She burst through the front door of the mission, gasping for fresh air. Instead she was met by the overpowering scent of garbage. Waves of nausea gripped her. She leaned forward, hands on her knees, trying to calm herself. “Breathe in and out. Breathe in and out.”

It didn’t work, her breath short and choppy. In her teens and early twenties, Becca’s struggle with PTSD was her own shameful secret, the panic attacks coming at all times of the day or night. It wasn’t until her first year of grad school that her advisor, a wonderfully kind professor, got to the root of Becca’s problems.