It’s quiet in the car, just when I don’t want it to be. Ginger’s lost in her own thoughts about Mom. I fiddle with the radio, but there’s nothing but Christmas music. I’m already sick of it, and it’s just the beginning of December. Ginger keeps twisting her hands on the wheel like it’s a towel she’s wringing out. She’s driving too slow. Old people in Cadillacs are passing us and honking. I don’t say anything. I just want to get away. I don’t care how long it takes to get there.

Mom’s gone on the patch and got a job and saved up money. But she’s still the same. She’s still opinionated and pushy. I tug at my jacket zipper. How are we supposed to live together when we can’t even have a conversation? Do I even want to live with her again? I’m confused and angry and also weirdly relieved to see that she’s okay, which makes me angry all over again. I let my head rest on the cold window and close my eyes until we get home.

When we pull into the drive, I spot Well sitting on the front steps hugging a giant trophy like a teddy bear. Ginger gets out of the car and walks inside with a tiny wave good-bye to us. Mom wasn’t exactly Miss Congeniality to her, either. I can’t believe she’d treat her own sister that way. Then again, it’s Mom, so I guess I can.

I take a seat next to Well.

“Nice trophy.”

“I’m thinking of naming her Stella.” He pats it like a dog. “I’m still gonna quit next year, though.” He pulls his hat down low over his ears. “How’d it go with your mom?”

Through the open door, I glimpse Dan folding Ginger up in a hug so tight I can barely see the top of her head.

“Let’s take a walk,” I say.

I grab a blanket from the back of the Lexus and lead Well around the house, across the lawn, through the back gate, and into the forest. He starts humming the opening lines from the play, “Into the woods,” and then cannot help but sing the rest at full volume.

By the time he’s done, we’ve made it to the little wooden bridge. The stream is lined with snowy leaves on either side. We lean on the rail, and I open the blanket to wrap it around both of us, leaving an inch or so of space between our shoulders.

“So?” he asks again.

“Mom was Mom,” I say finally.

“Which means?”

“Which means I don’t know how to be around her anymore. Or if I want to. She’s doesn’t even know me—not the me that’s here and does theater and has friends and oh—”

“What?” he asks.