I stared out the window at the trees passing by out of focus. Everything looked different. Like we had shifted dimensions. Like I’d been living in a flat, two-dimensional world, length and width alone, and now there was a sudden depth. Things looked too close and then too far, too large and too small. Everything the same, and yet completely disorienting.

It was the same place I’d been my entire life, same trees, same people, same white coating over everything. I’d never noticed that everything was dead underneath the snow. We hit a pothole and everything lurched to the right. Trees spun. Carson’s face. His mouth. His mouth that was cold and tasted like—“Oh God, pull over.”

I stumbled out the passenger door and fell to my knees in the untouched snow. I sucked in deep breath after deep breath but the churning wouldn’t stop. I tried to stand and had to steady myself with the car. Troy came around but I held my arm out to stop him.

“I’m going to be sick,” I said. And then I was. I hurled the abysmal contents of my stomach into a ditch off the highway in the middle of nowhere, Maine.

Troy was right. This was hell.

I stayed bent over on shaky legs and felt Troy’s tentative hand rubbing my upper back. I turned my head sideways and looked up at him through the long hair hanging in my face. He was staring off into the woods. Without looking at me, he took my arms and pulled me upright, then wrapped his hands around my wrists. He pressed his thumbs just above my wrist joints, and the dizziness ebbed.

“My sister used to get carsick,” he said. I pulled my arms back, even though he was helping. “I couldn’t help her,” he said. “But I can help you.”

I let out a bark of laughter. I didn’t want his help. Not that kind of help. He turned abruptly and got back in the car. I kept my eyes closed the rest of the way home. And I didn’t cry. God, how I ached to cry. But I wouldn’t. Not in front of Troy. Not again.

So I held it in. I held it in until we rolled to a stop and Mom threw the front door open and ran down the path in her slippers. She already knew. I started sobbing before I reached her. Mom opened her arms and I ran into them. Nothing else mattered. Not the pills or the words or the betrayal.

Troy spoke to her as we walked up the front steps, but I couldn’t hear him over the sobs. And then he left and she pulled me onto the couch with her.

“He’s dead, isn’t he? For real, entirely dead?” I looked up at Mom’s tear-streaked face. She stared out the window and rocked me back and forth in her arms. “Shh,” she said. “Everything’s okay. Shh.”

“Carson’s okay?” I asked.

She stopped rocking and looked me in the eye. “No, baby,” she said. And then she rocked and shushed me some more.

“Mom? There’s something wrong with me.” She held me tighter. I nestled into her, seeking the comfort of her soft arms, but all I felt were bones. Sharp collarbone. Jutting shoulder. Weak arms. She was disappearing. Death was everywhere. But Mom, I was killing her slowly. In painstakingly tiny increments.

And later that night, still curled up on the couch, when she gave me the sleeping pill and the antidepressant, I willingly took them.

There was this beautiful moment as I was waking up. Fleece was tucked up to my neck, cushions and warmth surrounded me, morning light slanted in through the curtains, the smell of batter baking in the waffle iron wafted in from the kitchen. One beautiful moment before the heaviness crashed down. The waffle batter sizzled and popped in accusation. My stomach rebelled from the memories.

I went running for the bathroom in yesterday’s clothes, cold and stiff from dried snow. And I could still smell him. Taste him. I heaved over the toilet, rested my face on the cold porcelain, but nothing came out. There was nothing left. I was empty inside.

The world had gone on without me while I slept. Mom’s car was back, and the inside was clean. I sat in the spot where Carson had been. I strapped the seat belt across my chest, where it had dug into Carson. I looked out the windows and squinted like he had done, trying to see what he saw. I leaned forward, trying to feel what he felt. But he was gone. Dad had scrubbed him out. I couldn’t even smell the leather anymore. Just acetone and pine. Sharp and overwhelming.

I felt the tugging in the parking lot of Dr. Logan’s office. When I walked in, I didn’t keep my head down. I looked at them all. It wouldn’t make any difference. I couldn’t do anything for them. The receptionist kept sneaking peeks at me in the lulls between her typing. What had she heard about me? That I was a miracle? That I was damaged? That I was crazy? That I was something less than human?