“So why don’t we study here,” I suggest.

“You don’t have to take the exams.”

I shrug. “I could though, and you have to, so why not study together?”

“I could hug you . . .”

“Rain check. My arms are still tender.”

She nods, and then goes over to the bag of treats. She pulls out a box of one of the sugar-filled, marshmallow-laden cereals that she finds disgusting and I love. She doesn’t even lecture me on just how much exercise I’ll have to do in order to counter the junk I like to eat. It hits me then: I’m going to be in a cast for weeks, possibly months. I can’t exercise.

“Gracie!”

My best friend pauses as she’s pulling out a bag of dried fruit and a box of some sort of sugar-free, preservative-free, flavor-free snack mix. “I’m not leaving you with just junk,” she starts, clearly thinking I was objecting to the healthier snacks she brought.

“You can’t.” I gaze longingly at the cereal, all wrapped up in a bright toddler-friendly package. “Take it with you. My marshmallow cereal. Take it.”

She tilts her head and gives me a suspicious look. “Take the junk away?”

I hold out my Oreos. “These too.” I shake the package. “I can’t exercise.”

“Sweetie, you hate exercise.” She comes over to stand beside me. Her expression is clouded. “Remember?”

I feel a twinge of guilt. Personality changes are possible with TBI, and while Grace isn’t making a scene over worrying about me, she is still aware of the possibilities. It makes me glad I didn’t tell her about the hallucination thing.

“I remember. I just know I’ll get fat if you can’t make me run,” I explain.

Clarity dawns on her, and she gives me a sympathetic smile. She also takes my Oreos. We’re both quiet while she repacks some of the junk food she brought for me.

I break the silence by saying, “Thanks for bringing clothes.”

Grace pulls out the skirts she and her mother bought for me. The first one is the sort of loud pattern that makes me wince visibly. It’s the brightest piece of clothing I’ve ever owned. “Still think my mom is perfect? She picked this one.”

I tilt my head. “It’s not that bad. The General has fine taste.”

Grace rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. We’ve been having the same discussion over her mother for at least eighteen months. She thinks her mom is overbearing; I think she should be grateful for having an attentive mother. Mrs. Yeung is awesome, and I’d wear a sack if that’s what it took to back my stance.

“I picked this one.” She holds up a solid brown skirt with a subtle peacock feather line drawing that starts at the hem and stretches over the bottom quarter of the skirt. The lines are in the same sky blue as the first skirt, but here, they’re a burst of bright on a dark palate. It’s exactly what I’d pick for myself.

She pulls out two more skirts, both more like the one she’d selected for me, and I know that she was responsible for keeping Mrs. Yeung’s appreciation for bolder colors in check. “Thank you.”

At the bottom of the bag are five short-sleeved T-shirts in various colors: pink, blue, black, gray, and brown. Grace doesn’t unfold them, just puts them to the side. “These are pretty basic, but I figured you could use a few clean shirts so you aren’t living in pajamas. Mom said she’d wash everything.”

I hadn’t thought about the state of my laundry until now. I had wanted some skirts because of the cast, but as Grace mentions my clothes, I realize that I’d have had to re-wear things if not for them. My parents are due back soon, but as usual when they’re away, it’s Mrs. Yeung to the rescue.

After a quiet moment, I blurt, “I saw Nathaniel Bouchet yesterday.”

“The Jessup man-slut? Here?” She sounds more like Piper in this moment than I ever would tell her.

I simply nod.

“He actually seemed surlier than usual at school today.” Grace shakes her head. “Which is saying something because when he’s sober, he’s about as friendly as a rabid dog.”

“He was in class?”

“Yeah.” She drags the word out like I’ve asked something stupid. “Every day this week. Text Piper or Laurel. They’d know for sure. I think Piper watches him even more than you do.”

I know I’m blushing, but I try to shrug it off. Most people don’t comment on the way I watch Nate. Grace doesn’t ignore things like that though. “I thought maybe he was a patient, too. When we talked he said he was in the lounge most evenings.”

“So, let me get this right: Nate don’t-talk-to-me Bouchet visited you, but Robert hasn’t?” Grace pauses, looking at me as if I’ll pick up the conversation.

“Nate didn’t visit me. He was here, and we talked . . . it’s different.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I motion toward my brush, which is on the nightstand. Grace hands it to me, and I busy myself brushing my hair. It’s already become habit to brush it more often, as if frequency will overcome the fact that I refuse to look into a mirror to see the results. “Robert texts me,” I say.

“About why he wasn’t there the night of the accident?”

I pause mid-brushstroke. “No.”

At that, Grace goes into a rant about Robert not deserving me anyhow, and how she “always thought he was an asshat”—which is nowhere near the first time she’s said as much. I’ve given up on trying to explain to her that Robert is nice, even if acts a bit stiff. He’s been my friend forever, and while he’s never been the sort to want to climb trees or go sloshing in the creek, he was the sort to listen to me when I was angry or to bring me a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts when I was depressed.