It’s the first time I’ve seen her today, even though she’s still living in the cabin. Her engine is officially dead, and the garage needed to order pieces to be able to make the proper repairs, so she’s been here for three days and counting. Not that I’m complaining. She usually stays with us for dinner—Ma practically forces her to—and she’s brought some much-needed change to our meal times. Ever since Dad’s accident, we’d been eating in near silence. Our dinner tables used to be so lively, with everyone adding their two cents to the conversation, but now that Dad can’t contribute like he used to, we all feel the need to stop speaking. It’s strange, if I’m being honest. He probably doesn’t want that for us. It’s not like it’s a rule for us to keep quiet, but it’s what came naturally for everyone.

Yet ever since Wren has been around, our meals have become lively again. She’s been able to make Callie and Ma smile while talking about “the girls,” as she calls them, or about why she’s so scared of rats. Everyone ended up learning about Wren’s little event during the night two days ago because the morning after, Ma was sitting in the kitchen when I came back inside, and I had to spill the beans. She, of course, then told the entire family.

It’s not even like Wren makes an effort to be funny or lovable; she simply is.

“It’s just…” She points her thumb to something over her shoulder. “I think your father wants to tell you something. I’m done working with him for the day, and he’s been motioning toward this room for the past ten minutes.”

My stomach drops. I feel like shit for avoiding spending time alone with him, but I can’t help it. It’s too hard. I try to stay strong for the family, to take on his work like it’s no big deal, without ever complaining, but seeing him trying to talk without succeeding is something that hurts too much, even for me.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” I say, turning my back to her as if something incredibly interesting just appeared on my desk.

I wait for her to go, but she doesn’t. Instead, she says in a low voice, “It won’t get better just because you ignore it, you know.”

When I look back her way, her face is focused, as usual. Neutral.

“How do you know I’m avoiding it?” I ask. It’s like she can always read my mind, while I spend my time trying to decipher what she’s thinking. It’s frustrating, but also fascinating. Like she’s a puzzle with more pieces than I can deal with.

She swallows. “Because I did the same.”