I open the car door and slide into the back seat. Grams holds on to the package from Quinn, cradling it in her lap, as Dad steers the car out of the driveway. I keep sneaking glances at the box, wondering what could possibly be inside, even though I don’t want to be thinking about it.

I don’t want to be thinking about the McCauley family at all.

Outside the car window, the sun is hanging low in the sky, about to slip below the horizon, and it’s making a hazy orange trail. We drive by tree-lined streets and manicured postage-stamp–sized lawns where leaves have been raked into neat piles by the curb.

September, my birthday month. It used to mean new school supplies, freshly sharpened pencils and blank notebooks. School used to be a place that was safe. A place where I learned things. But last year, I learned the worst thing: no place is really safe.

So these days when I think of September, I think of it as the time of year when night starts earlier and lasts longer—a darkness that comes and doesn’t leave.

Dad steers the car along the road that will lead us to downtown. Chestnut, my hometown, is one of a collection of small Ohio towns that are along the old railway line, which means we have a little downtown-type square. It’s mostly shops and restaurants with one hardware store, and also a new fancy pet-food place that just came in. Grams thinks the pet food place is wild. “People are feeding their dogs more expensive food than I eat!” she says, but the store always seems to be crowded. That’s Chestnut for you.

Pete’s Pizza is in this downtown square. Dad parks the car and we all get out. He holds the restaurant door open for Grams and me. When I walk through, he says, “Twelve. I can’t believe my little girl is twelve. I’m probably going to have to stop calling you my little girl soon, huh?”

I blink the tears away from my eyes before Dad can see them. I have to be strong for him.

I’m the only Hamed girl left.

Dad gently presses his hand into the small of my back. As we walk toward the booth, I look over my shoulder. I spot our car in the front row of the parking lot. In the passenger seat, I can make out the shadowy outline of the cardboard box. The fading sunlight hits it in a way that makes it look like it’s winking at me.

I take a deep breath and turn my head away.

Two

Quinn

Dear Parker,

I only ever saw you cry once.

It was in the woods. It was after you helped me down from the tree.

Do you remember?

Dad always told us not to cry. Especially you.

The time I saw you cry, it wasn’t because you were sad.

I haven’t cried since it happened, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to cry when I see you again.