I still had an hour until June was supposed to show up so I decided to do my makeup, something I’d hardly even thought about since the end of the world. Tinted moisturizer. Mascara. I tried to fill in my eyebrows but my hands were shaking and heavy and the pencil swipes ended up too thick and uneven, so I scrubbed them off. This wasn’t helping; mascara made the bags under my eyes darker, blush accentuated the ghoulish boniness of my cheeks, and lipstick settled in the downturned corners of my mouth. I didn’t feel pretty. I felt tired. I felt like death. This was an unproductive exercise, like putting glasses on a corpse, and anyway, none of this would even matter – it doesn’t matter if you’re pretty when you swerve, smash –

Ugh.

Stop.

I thought of Mom. Hated that she’d been in the office, maybe late at night or while I was at school, thumbing through Dad’s books for something, anything, that could help, that could help me. Highlighting. Dog-earing. Committing to memory.

I’d been too harsh.

And even worse – when I went downstairs that morning there were sheets of tri-folded paper strewn all about the kitchen island, and I couldn’t help but peek: bills. Crawford Funeral Homes. The hospital.

Holy shit. How the hell did it cost so much to die?

I overcooked some blueberry pancakes as a peace offering, then covered them in plastic wrap so they wouldn’t get cold and popped a green teabag into a mug. Left a note.

I’m sorry. Love you.

It struck me like a meteor to my chest that I wouldn’t have to specify who the note was for.

June was punctual and I was a mess.

I’d been waiting in the driveway since 6:45, hoping the cold would rouse some sort of strength within me, or at least freeze the panic, but I hadn’t had much luck either way. I was focused mostly on breathing, the air sharp and slicing the back of my throat, when June crunched up the driveway. At least, I assumed it was her; the headlights were so bright against the pitch-darkness that I couldn’t see anything except for the silhouette of the car and snowflakes drifting lazily in the glow. With the spotlight fixed on me, I felt a bit like I was being beamed up.

I took an unsatisfying breath and moved forward.

Somehow the sweat on my palms hadn’t frozen, I realized, as I tugged on the door of the passenger side.

‘Morning, girly,’ June said, all sing-song, after I’d collapsed into the seat.

‘Hi,’ was all I managed to squeak out.

June or the car. I couldn’t settle on which scared me more. Of course, it wasn’t the car that scared me, it was the sudden stop, and it wasn’t June that scared me, it was myself in front of her.