He climbs out, and I follow, reaching into the back seat to grab my duffel and messenger bags. I brought some schoolbooks, as much as I could fit into the bags, as well as a few changes of clothes. Just a few. I guess some part of me is holding onto the dream that it wouldn’t be as bad as Abel made it out to be with my dad, and I might even return to school.

But then his words play back. You’ve been chosen. And I know I’m not going back to school.

I follow my half brother to the front door and wait for him to unlock and open it, then step inside even as my legs grow leaden. It’s like they know once I enter, it will be that much harder to get out.

The smell of the place washes over me, overwhelming my senses. My mother’s candles. Vanilla and cinnamon. I know how much she pays for those candles. It’s a ridiculous price for wax that will melt and disappear. It’s not a bad smell, but it carries memories, and I set my hand on the table beside the door to steady myself as I take it in.

Was the dizzying nausea always this bad? Or is it worse now that I’ve been gone, free for more than half a year?

“I thought Dad said you had that under control,” Abel says.

I take a deep breath in and turn my head to look at him as the fog around the edges of my vision clears even as sweat dampens my forehead.

“I’m just anxious. It’s worse then.” I have vestibular balance disorder. It’s usually manageable, and I know how to keep it in check, but when I’m out of my element or stressed, it comes back with a vengeance.

I’m not complaining. So many people have it much worse than me. People who don’t know me just think I’m clumsy. And a disorder where I lose my balance or knock into things is the least of my problems, considering.

“Well, get your shit together. Let’s go,” he says, grabbing hold of my arm and taking my bags with his free hand.

“That’s almost gentlemanly of you,” I say as he marches me toward the stairs. “At least it would be if you weren’t leaving a mark on my arm.” I don’t mention the tightness in my face where he slapped me. I’m pretty sure that’s bruised, too. He’s never hit me before. He’s come close, but he’s always known Dad wouldn’t allow it. But now, I guess Dad’s rules don’t apply.