THE CON FINALLY ended at five, and an hour later, we’re barely halfway through teardown. Dad’s crew is currently boxing merchandise and running hand trucks full of comics out to the vans as fast as they can, probably hoping to escape a repeat of last year. I’m mostly standing around, chewing on my lip, trying not to combust. I’m so keyed up, I can’t take it, between Peak—who I absolutely shouldn’t still be texting but yet compulsively am—and trying to convince myself I don’t actually care that I’m about to fly to Seattle by myself while Gray and my dad get to stay here.

I grab a box of leftover glow sticks and carry it out with the guys to the loading dock. Grayson’s driving me to the airport soon, but she’s still making the rounds, hugging pretty much every single person she knows—i.e., every single person still here. Most of the smaller vendors and artists are already done with teardown, just mingling with friends before they hit the road. Vera is already gone, and Peak along with her, but we’ve been texting nonstop since she hit the road.

My flight’s not for three more hours, and I try not to think about the fact that our house is only forty-five minutes from here the way Gray drives, and I could conceivably go see it quick before hitting the airport. Not that seeing it would make it easier to leave. It would just be nice to be asked. There are so many things I want to know too, like is my room still the same, is the tree fort still there, does anybody notice I’m not around?

I slide the box into the van, frowning at my own neediness, and turn around only to be met with the sight of my dad stalking toward me, Allison in tow. His eyes are bloodshot, his forehead is creased, his mouth open and ready to yell, and this is not what I meant by wanting to be noticed. There’s no way to escape without making a scene, so I just brace myself and try to remember to breathe.

I’m outside, the sun is setting, it’s cold but not unbearably so, my dad is going to scream at me, and it will be okay, even if it is not okay. Radical acceptance, my ex-therapist said, is the key to life. Meet life on its terms, even if the terms are totally fucked up. I thought it was bullshit then, and I still do, but.

“If it isn’t the prodigal son. Back to help now that everything’s over,” Dad slurs. He’s drunk, probably courtesy of his pal “Chuckie.” Judging by the way he keeps rubbing at his nose, probably more than drunk too.