Annie came knocking on the door like clockwork. She always does the wrong thing and realizes after. But unlike Momma, she tries to apologize even though she never says the words “I’m sorry.”

“Open the door, Sawyer. You have to leave the door open now, remember? Like the doctor said.”

She knows everything that the doctor said except for the part about being nice to me. Telling people at school about my suicide attempt isn’t nice. Neither is criticizing me.

So I didn’t respond because she didn’t deserve it.

“Sawyer, PLEASE,” she begged. “Just open up. Can’t go hurting yourself over a dumb argument. Can’t handle your problems that way.”

But I can. “Sawyer?”

Quiet now. Hush, and panic.

A wink spasmed at the corner of my mouth. This was fun.

“Sawyer?” Annie called.

I like to hear her weak and afraid she’d be the one to push me to my limit. It makes the pain go away. To imagine her explaining HER behavior in the aftermath of my untimely death.

“Sawyer?” The quiver in her voice was music to my ears. “Sawyer?”

Say my name. Say my name forever.

Jake

GRADY: JAKE!!!

GRADY: BRO, WHERE ARE YOU?

GRADY: Your bro’s not letting me in. Says I’m not on the list.

GRADY: Ugh! WTF?

GRADY: ARE YOU SLEEPING????

GRADY: ARE YOU HAVING SEX WITH FIONA???

Text messages. Way too many texts from Grady when I roll awake. I wish Grady wasn’t so clingy. He should just wait for me to respond to one message before sending six more.

It’s Saturday, right? Yes, it must be.

I drop my phone, squeeze my eyes shut, stumble off the mattress, and close the blinds. I have a headache, and that light is making it worse.

I zone out even when I sleep. I wake up and choose to fall back asleep, sometimes for fourteen hours at a time. My body feels so heavy in the bed.

I stumble up and out the door. There’s an abandoned gold stiletto sitting all by itself in the hallway. The crime scene of last night’s party is everywhere the deeper I travel through the house and down the stairs—red plastic cups, greasy napkins, orange and black glitter, Silly String stuck to the plaster.

It’s coming back to me . . .

Last night, I woke up in astral form. Two ghost boys were making out against the mahogany wardrobe of my dead bedroom. They were dressed in crop tops, disco pants, and vibrant shoes. One was Black, with a Jheri curl, and one white, with flat hair and a headband. They undressed each other urgently.

I rose in bed, ecto-mist rising with me, seeping up from the sheets and the carpet fibers like summer mist—sweet orange and vivid purple. My doorknob glowed like a glass gem. A heavy trap beat boomed beyond it.