I place my hand on the shirt. I let it sit there until it doesn’t want to jerk away. And then I do the same with the skirt. There’s a zipper and hook on the side that I know will freak me out if they brush up against my bare leg. I decide to put the shirt on first and hope it’s long enough tucked in to keep the metal off my hip. I dress very slowly, like I’m pulling it on over a bad sunburn. Twenty minutes later I walk stiffly down the stairs and perch on a barstool behind the kitchen counter. It’s bearable, just, if I don’t think about it too much. But add that to everything else I don’t want to think about, like starting at a brand-new school partway through the year after not being in a school at all in more than a year, and wondering where Mom is waking up today, and there’s literally no safe thought in my head.

Ginger turns with cup of coffee in hand when she hears me. “Oh, let me see! Stand up!”

I do, very slowly so the skirt doesn’t swish against my skin.

“You look lovely, Lou. Blue really suits you.” She’s dressed for work in a black pencil skirt, high heels, and a green sweater. Her hair is twisted up in a knot. She looks like the business version of an American Girl doll. I look like a homeless person in a school uniform, which is exactly what I am. She hands me a banana and a bowl and points to the row of cereal boxes in the pantry.

“Sorry. I’m not really much of a cook. Saturday was an exception.” I remember the tomato chunks and say a little prayer of thanks. I walk over to the pantry. Wow. There have to be eight different cereals in here. I pick out a box of Frosted Flakes—name brand!—and then let my eyes wander up the shelves. Organic lentil soup and peanut butter. Some kind of jam with a French label. Whole-wheat pasta and jars of olives and bottles of steak marinades. It’s so much food in one place, it takes my breath away. I pick up a package of pink-iced animal crackers.

“Those are my favorite,” Ginger says from over my shoulder.

“Mom’s too,” I say, and crinkle the package in my fingertips. She always lets me have the sprinkles that fall to the bottom of the bag.

Ginger smiles. Her lips are shimmery with pale peach lipstick. “We used to walk to the gas station down the road from our house and buy them with change we found in the couch cushions.”