He must have ordered a shake or smoothie or something, because the blender whirred to life like a demon, like Ginger’s, but worse because it was only two feet away. I covered my ears, but the whining drone of it snuck past, and I began to shake, first my head and then my whole body. The girl in the striped apron at the blender had no idea. She kept going. A thousand bees in my head. My heart in my throat. I dropped the coupon and ran.

Mom found me crying on the sidewalk behind the Snow Cap five minutes later. Without a word, she handed me a double scoop of mint chocolate chip. My favorite. And then she hummed some more “You Are My Sunshine” while I ate. There was only one coupon. She didn’t get a cone of her own.

I stare up at my ceiling. Mom would never abandon me. Never. Which leaves only one conclusion: This is all my fault. She’s “under investigation” because I can’t do a simple thing like drive a truck two miles down the road without wrecking our whole lives. Guilt twirls in my stomach like an eel, dark and slick. I taste the acidy tomato juice again and sit up. I will take this “opportunity,” as Maria called it, to practice being normal here. So that by the time Mom calls me, I’ll be her good-luck charm like always. We’ll pick up with LA just like we planned.

Meanwhile, this is the day that will not end. The Saturday that stopped time. I hear a door slam downstairs. Dan’s probably back from tennis. Nice, teachery Dan, who might very well be my English teacher on Monday. I put my earbuds in and crank the music up loud, dragging a pillow over my face to keep away any unwanted noises.

Not a minute later I feel a thwack, thwack, thwack at the foot of the bed and jerk upright. I yank out the earbuds. There is a boy in my room—a very skinny boy with dark hair and blue fingernails. And he is swinging a racket one inch from my foot.

“Well?” he says.

I hug my pillow. And then I try to speak. But my voice is hiding somewhere under the pillow next to my hammering heart.

“Well.” He holds out a hand. At the threat of a handshake, I scoot back and knock into the headboard. It shakes loose my voice.

“Well what?” It’s squeaky, but it’s there.

“No. Well.” He points at himself with his racket. “I’m Well. You must be Louise.”

His green T-shirt has a screen print of U2’s War album on it, and it looks intentionally distressed. There is a red sweatband around his head like he’s an extra in a Jazzercise video. It makes me curious and a teensy bit less nervous.

“Your name is Well?”