I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and felt it. A faint tug, like I’d felt in the hospital, leading me back in Dad’s direction. I closed my eyes and let it guide me. I brushed people aside. Their noises and scents and bags rolled off of me as the tug sharpened. Like tunnel vision of the senses. As I got closer to where I’d left Dad, the tugging increased to a pull. It pulled me almost directly to his bench. He wasn’t alone.

“Done,” I said when I reached him.

“That was fast.”

I shrugged. “Too many people to enjoy shopping.”

“I know what you mean,” he said, shooting a glace at the man next to him. Age spots covered the old man’s face and his labored breathing carried over the noise from the crowd. A second person could’ve easily fit inside his sagging skin. His cane rested across his lap and encroached on Dad’s territory. A red ribbon wound down its length so it looked like a candy cane. His bony fingers clasped at the cane loosely.

When Dad stood up, the cane slid off the old man’s lap and rolled across the floor. I jumped backward when the man reached his hand out in our direction, but Dad worked with the elderly a lot, so he wasn’t awkward and uncomfortable around them like me. Dad stooped over, picked up the cane, and handed it back to the man. He nodded his thanks and retreated into the corner, his thin bones folding up like wooden slats.

The old man’s breath caught in his throat, and he started coughing into the open air, spewing germs and phlegm and the sharp scent of medicine in my direction. I backed away rapidly, one arm blocking my face, until my legs collided with a bench across the aisle.

“Hey, Delaney.” I looked down to my left. Troy sat on the bench, slouched low, legs sprawled out in front of him. His face was partially hidden behind his brown hair and the gray hood of his sweatshirt, but his blue eyes peered out at me. He smiled, that same crooked smile.

Then Dad came over, and Troy rose to his feet. He removed his arms from the pocket of his sweatshirt, pushed his hood back, and brushed the hair out of his face. He rocked back and forth on his heels beside me.

“Delaney, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

He wasn’t my friend. I didn’t know exactly what he was. Not quite a stranger. An acquaintance? But Janna said he hadn’t read about me in the paper. A nosy townie? It’s not like there was anyone left in our small town who hadn’t heard about my accident. Why bother with the specifics? “Dad, this is Troy. Troy, my dad.” Troy stuck his hand out and Dad took it. They did that firm man handshake for a few seconds and stepped back again.

Then there was this empty silence—a hole in the noisy crowd. Troy watched me, Dad watched Troy watching me, and I watched Dad watching Troy watching me. I cleared my throat and said, “It’s getting late.”

“So, I’ll see you later,” Troy said. He settled back on the bench, eyeing the man with the festive cane. Dad placed a hand on my back and began to lead me through the crowd, against the pull. Behind me, Troy said, “You get it, right?”

I craned my neck around Dad’s torso and asked, “Get what?” But the path to Troy was blocked by frantic shoppers. The people and the floor and the plastic bags absorbed my question and stomped and rustled in reply.

Decker didn’t come over Friday morning. Not Friday afternoon, either. And he didn’t pick up his cell. Mom left for the grocery store with strict instructions on what I was permitted to do (take a shower, watch television, fold my laundry) and what I was not permitted to do (touch the stove, leave the house). I tried reading on my own, but the headaches started after three and a half pages. By the time I heard the garage door open, I was anxious for something to do.

Mom set a paper bag on the counter and smiled at me. “Unload?”

“Sure.” This was something we did together all the time. A custom, I guess. Sounds small and trite, but right then it was calming, normalizing. I wondered if Mom used to do this with her mother. If they had their own customs. If Mom’s memories weren’t all bad.

I pulled the bread and the cans from the bags and arranged them in the pantry. And all the while, I tried to imagine Mom at my age. I wondered why she cut ties with her parents. Did they drug her to sleep? Think she was hallucinating? Accuse her of murder? Doubtful.

No, I thought as I slammed a glass jar onto the countertop, that was just me. I spun around and clipped the tomato sauce with the back of my hand, knocking it off the counter. I dove to catch it, but it smashed against the tile before I could get there, spraying glass across the floor and sauce across my face. Mom slid to the floor in front of me, knees on the glass, beige pants stained dark red, and gripped my face in her hands.