“Why did you leave before senior year?” Of course, Del doesn’t let go. She leans into the silence, trying to ensure I’m ready to speak up because she’s done waiting. “Mom told me you left only a week after I did.”

My grip tightens around the paper cup, knuckles pressing against the warmth. No one’s ever asked me that out loud. Not Nysa nor Atlas. They saw me leaving and accepted it. In fact, they helped me pack my grandfather’s truck when I stole it just so I could get across the country.

Why can’t Del do the same?

I could lie. Say something flippant. Play it off as if I had a better offer, as though I were chasing dreams and freedom instead of running half-wild and panicked with barely a plan.

“The same reason everyone left,” I say with a casual shrug that feels brittle in my bones. “Even you bailed. I was just done. What I can’t understand is why you came back.”

Yes, I’m flipping the conversation and focusing on her because I hate to remember how it all happened, how it began, and how it ended. The middle though . . . the middle was agonizing. The wait, the knowledge that I would lose everything all over again. No one wants to remember any of that. No one.

Since I want this to stay on her side of the court I add, “You’ve been to France. New York. Why come back to this backwards-ass town with its bake-sale politics and maple-flavored judgment?”

That’s the question that matters. Why come back when you could’ve had everything? I know why I’m here.

Because when I said, ‘Please, get me out of here,’ someone listened. Someone offered me a hand and helped me, but I made a deal. Favors don’t stay favors forever—they become debts. And not long ago they called me during one of my shifts at the hospital, saying: We’re collecting. You have to move to Birchwood Springs. It’ll be two years. Maybe three.

That was the agreement.

Lend my skills. Keep my head down, watch the town. Watch it very closely because things in here are not what they seem.

And after that? I’ll get my life back—if I survive this town.

“Mom needs me.” Delilah finally responds. Her voice cracks at the edges like something fragile, already half-broken. “I don’t know what’s happening to her. She keeps talking about the past—about my father. But not in a sweet, nostalgic way. It’s . . . weird.”

“Like she’s losing her mind weird?” I try not to sound alarmed.

Del shrugs but also nods.

I frown. “Why haven’t you brought her to the clinic? I could run some tests.”