“Where’s your mom?” he asked.

“Inside,” I said in a way that indicated she might be out any second, though she wouldn’t.

He looked down at my hands and said, “What are you doing?”

I smoothed my hands down my pant legs like Mom would do and plastered a smile on my face and said, “Baking cookies.”

Troy frowned at me. “What’s wrong with you?”

I laughed. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me? You’re kidding. What’s right about me?” I felt lightheaded, like I was watching the scene unfold from far away. But all I could see was Troy. Nothing else mattered.

Troy dropped his forehead into his hands and rubbed his temples. He spoke to the ground. “You need to pull yourself together, Delaney.” He looked up at me, and his eyes took on a new look, not his usual one of confidence and self-righteousness, but one of panic and confusion. “I’m worried about you.”

I put my hands on my hips and rocked back on my heels. “Well, that’s sweet, Troy. Really sweet. Kind of like how you were worried when I was in the hospital? Or how you were worried when you set that man’s house on fire?” Troy whipped his head from side to side, making sure nobody was nearby. “Or how you were so worried about Carson that you just stood there and watched him die? If you cared about anyone, me included, you would’ve done something. You would’ve tried to help me.”

He paced back and forth across my front porch and mumbled, “I do want to help you.” Then he changed course and walked toward me. I backed up, until I was pressed against the door. Troy leaned into me, hands against the house, one on either side of me.

His face was an inch from mine, and I could feel his breath. He seemed to be waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he pushed his lips onto mine—and when nothing happened still, he brought a hand behind my head and pressed harder. He moved his lips, eyes closed, as I just stood there, unmoving, eyes open. Until he was done and dropped his hand, pulled his head back, and winced.

“You’re dying,” he whispered.

“What?” I gripped the doorknob. Was I sick? Could he sense it?

“On the inside,” he said. I wanted to feel relief, but I didn’t. Because he was right. He saw what Decker couldn’t see. I released my grip and pushed him in the chest with my oven-mitted hands. He staggered backward and walked down the steps.

“Troy.” He paused, one foot on the sidewalk, one still on my porch steps. “Guess I should stay away from you then.”

I waited for an argument, but I didn’t get any. And he didn’t look ashamed or hurt or angry. He looked thoughtful. So I spun around and ran inside, slamming the door in his face. I tried to flip the lock, but the oven mitts got in the way. So I threw them on the floor, successfully turned the lock, and leaned into the door again, peering out through the peephole. Troy was still standing there, thinking pretty hard about my front door. He thought about it for a solid three minutes—which, coincidentally, was the amount of time it took to lose all feeling in my fingers.

I went back to the kitchen and punched at the power button over the oven, making sure it was off. Then I scraped the cookies into the garbage. I tied up the trash bag and threw it into the garage. Because Troy ruined the memory. Now, anytime I’d smell melting chocolate, I’d think of him.

Then I scrubbed and disinfected and mopped until my joints ached. I took down a mug—#1 ACCOUNTANT—and dragged a kitchen chair over to the refrigerator. Because along with not being trusted with medicine, I also wasn’t trusted with alcohol, which was one cabinet over. I reached up, pulled down the vodka, and filled my mug. Then I shook out a little blue pill and a long white tablet from the vials in the medicine cabinet and gulped it all down.

Everything burned. It still felt better than what was underneath. Before retreating to my bedroom, I topped off my mug one last time. My room felt much too bright, so I pulled the curtains tight, huddled on the floor in a corner, and sipped my drink.

I went to sleep in the middle of the afternoon in the house that had become a mausoleum.

I woke to pitch-blackness. Voices carried through the walls. Dad yelling, which he never did. Mom shrieking in return. My head ached and the floor tilted back and forth. I stumbled across the hallway and flung their door wide open without knocking.

Mom was standing in her flannel pajamas, her face gaunt and teeth clenched. Dad’s hair was ungelled and wild, and he was also in flannel. Nothing seemed as serious in flannel, so I giggled.

They both whipped their heads in my direction. Then Dad grabbed Mom’s hand. I looked down at their interlocked fingers. They weren’t angry with each other. They were yelling about me.