“I didn’t mean anything by it, just that Cary wouldn’t send them there to die,” I tell her. “You know he wouldn’t.”

She looks at me and she’s so student government president. Her posture is diplomatic but her tone is frosty. “But he did … and they did.”

“But—”

“Look, it’s hard enough for Trace right now,” she says. “If it’s how you feel, fine. But I want you to stay away from my brother if you can’t keep it to yourself.”

She walks away. At first I think I’ll cry, but I don’t. I’m too jealous of the way she guards Trace to cry and I hate that she thinks of me as someone she has to protect him from.

Eventually, Cary calls us over to the stage. He shows us the locker haul. They found toothpaste—we take turns passing the tube around and dabbing microscopic globs on our fingers—floss, deodorant … there are some clothes, which makes Grace happy. I spot a pink sweater with a name written on the tag: CORRINE M. Corrine Matthews.

I remember her curly black hair and smile and then I don’t want to touch it.

There’s lots of candy and gum. Some lighters and cigarettes. I look at Rhys, expecting him to be happy about it but he doesn’t look happy about it

We settle in for the night. The room is … the word home crosses my mind, but it’s not the right one to use. Lily and I used to play house. I was eight, she was ten, and Mom was dead, but Mom had been dead for a while by then, so I guess that’s not an important part of this memory. I had dolls and an old box. She had paper, pencils, and erasers and she’d ask questions while I leaned Barbie up against a flimsy cardboard wall and tried to figure out what to do with Ken.

How big should the bedrooms be? Should we have a guest bedroom? Okay. Separate bathrooms for sure. No, Dad doesn’t need a room, Sloane. Because he’s not going to live with us. This is our house.

FOUR DAYS LATER

“Grace! GRACE! Dad’s alive! He’s outside! He’s ALIVE!”

Trace bursts into the auditorium screaming these words at the top of his lungs and then we’re awake like we were never asleep.

Mr. Casper. Alive.

Trace is breathless and crying as he leads us to the second floor. The flashlight jerks in his hands as he tries to explain. “I couldn’t sleep—I was wandering around and I heard him, he was calling for help—I went to the window and I saw—”

Mr. Casper. He’s alive, in the parking lot, calling for help.

Rhys is going are you sure? Are you sure you’re sure? Maybe you were sleepwalking. Trace is so beside himself he doesn’t even tell Rhys to fuck off.

We sprint down the halls and up the stairs so fast my lungs feel like they’re going to explode. My heart is numb. I don’t believe this. I can’t believe in this.