They drove in silence for a while. Streetlights swept into the truck, a silvered caress over Linnie’s fair hair, a stroke down her arm. Maggie wrapped her fingers more tightly around the steering wheel and tried to concentrate on the empty black road, but she kept thinking about where she’d found Linnie in the basement, lounging between two guys in a half-finished room, doing shots and laughing, the door closed, not a single other girl present.

How little Linnie cared for her safety. How little she seemed to care for Sam and Kate and Thomas and Wren, the people who loved her, who wanted to help her. How freely she dumped on other people.

“You don’t take good care of yourself.” She pressed her lips together, surprised she’d said that aloud.

Linnie didn’t respond immediately. When she did, her tone had lost its lightness. “I take care of myself just how I want to.”

“Hanging out wherever, getting trashed with whoever.” Frustration edged Maggie’s exhalation, revved it to a growl. “You make yourself vulnerable. You could get hurt.”

Linnie laughed once. “You could get hurt, you could get molested, you could get raped.” She clucked. To her window, she continued softly, “Passive voice, Mrs. Michaels called it. It’s a problem. Don’t you hear how it’s a problem, Margaret? You, of all people? Dropping the subject? Erasing the perpetrator? Acting like it’s up to you to be on your toes, practicing the buddy system, looking over your shoulder, mastering kung fu in your free time, dressing right, smiling”—she thrust out a warning hand—“but not too much, having fun”—she held out the other hand, doubling the halt—“but not too much, and running your mixed drinks to the lab to have them tested for drug contamination. One false move, and boom, you get nailed”—she shook her head—“but by whom? Fucking passive voice. Somebody’s doing this shit.”

Maggie pressed two fingers to her temple. “That’s just how it is.” Not fair. But true.

“Well, I’m sick of it. It’s creepy, acting like a girl drinking too much is setting herself up to be raped. What does that have to do with anything? Maybe she shouldn’t drink so much because booze is bad for her. Maybe she shouldn’t drink so much because she could get addicted.” She tapped the window with a knuckle, then admitted quietly, “Maybe she shouldn’t drink so much because drinking’s a stupid way to escape what’s wrong with her life.” She gave her head another shake and sat up, rallying. “But to say, ‘Don’t drink too much, or you’ll get raped’? She doesn’t get raped because she overindulged or underdressed or forgot to bring along a bodyguard. She gets raped because some asshole raped her.”