And the one time I stand up for myself, the blame falls on me, and everything that Chad has done to me all year, the way he’s taunted me, doesn’t matter.

The balloon in my chest is about to pop.

“You never cared when Dad was hitting me.”

Mom goes still, like my words have frozen her. “Is that what this is about?”

I remember her watching him beat me after I brought the magazine home. Watching as he choked me into the wall—she just stood there and watched, stone-faced, like there was nothing she could do. Like I deserved it.

“You didn’t care.” My voice is a whisper.

“Jake . . .”

“You didn’t CARE!” I bolt out of the living room, tear open the front door, and run into the rain without closing it behind me.

If she’s calling me, I can’t hear her.

I just have to run. Down the avenues. Out of the subdivision and into the streets.

I don’t know why when I’m sad, my first impulse is to run back to places that make me sadder. But that’s what I do—I can’t help but go back to where it happened.

Fifteen minutes later I’m at the park joined to Woburn Drive, my old neighborhood in South Clark City. Here the potholes will blow out your tires, but the parks and recreation centers are nicely kept.

I guess I was raised here because those big grassy spaces are supposed to be good for kids. We all came out to this park to play—me and my best friend, Jalen Grey; Benji, Trevon, and Jeffrey. Benji stayed in touch with them after the divorce. I didn’t. I guess it was a convenience thing. I hung out with them because there was no one else.

I always do that. Why do I always do that?

The park is behind a station of townhomes, where the backyards slope into a basketball court and a fenced-in playground. Inside the playground are a swing set, seesaw, and carousel.

I remember playing b-ball on the court next door. I was best at three-pointers. Jalen was better at layups. He would lift the bottom of his shirt to wipe sweat off his face whenever he made a basket. He always took off his shirt when it got too hot, revealing his strong back, the two squares of muscle where all I had were shoulder blades. And his spine, like a canal, caught his sweat.

I couldn’t look away then and can’t stop thinking about it now. It always comes back to me, how stupid I was for sticking that note in his pocket. Do you like me? it read.