River lived in a yellow house with a porch and rocking chair. Begonias, orchids, and ferns hang from the porch, their plants green and healthy like little rain forests bursting with life, ecto-mist whispering through their stems when the wind blows.

I find the key in the garden’s fake rock like she told me and tiptoe into her house, up to her room. A jumble of black- and pink-themed stuff. Posters for campy slashers, flowers that have wilted and are hanging upside down on the wall. Flowers that are fresh, surrounding a picture of her on the dresser. It’s in the middle of candles and cards.

I find her journal, all black with a silver clasp, amid a shelf of records—Death Grips, Shygirl, the Smiths. I slip the letter in the back, letting the paper stick out just a little. Her family will find it eventually.

When the doctors asked me, “What made you lose control of the vehicle?” I didn’t say anything. Mom sat in the chair at the foot of the bed, and all I saw was her hair.

There is dark imagery bleeding and frying in the tortured trap of my mind. Rod’s body on that floor. I have to bury it and forget it happened, just so I can keep going.

It takes a few days after I leave the hospital for home to finally feel somewhat safe. The kitchen is quiet, but I always imagine someone dead on the floor. The bathroom is a bathroom—cold and empty, bug-free. There’s solace in the bedroom, except for when I catch a shadow in the corner and turn to find no one there.

Mom doesn’t press too much on what happened—I think I’m an explosive bomb in the room whose silence feels a little deadly. I don’t blame anyone for not wanting to talk to me. I’ve never talked much to other people.

I have text messages from Allister, and Fiona invites me on a low-stress rock-climbing excursion.

On the third day home, I decide I can make that happen and toss all my clothes from my dressers and closet to pick an outfit. I’m so used to being in uniform that I have no idea how to dress for occasions. But it’s nice not to think about a uniform anymore.

On the bed is a T-shirt from my friend Jalen. His family owned a T-shirt business, and he gave me that for my birthday, with JJL printed in bright blue and green graffiti. Jake Joseph Livingston.

I remember my unraveling it from the tissue paper. He said, “Now you have something Black to wear.” And laughed. I frowned until he slapped me on the shoulder and said, “Relax! It’s a joke. Do whatever you want.”