I close my eyes now and press the inside of my wrist against my mouth, wishing Jackson were here, wishing we hadn’t parted the way we did.

He just faced down what amounted to his sister’s ghost. I hate that I know he has to be suffering. And I hate that I know I added to his pain. I wasn’t there for him, didn’t offer much in the way of comfort. I’m not feeling very proud of that.

I grab a hoodie, climb out my window, and sit on the roof with my back pressed against the bricks, just like Mom and I used to do when I was little. We’d sit out here and stare at the stars. She’d try to name them. She didn’t always get them right, and it really didn’t matter.

Staring up at the stars now, I can’t help but wonder how many of them support worlds like Earth. Worlds like my ancestors came from. Or the Drau.

I wish Mom were here right now. I wish I could talk to her. I wouldn’t be able to tell her about the game, but I could tell her about the gray fog, the panic attacks, the way I try so hard to control everything in my life, as if that will keep me safe.

I could tell her about Jackson.

She could help me figure it all out.

But she isn’t here, and I haven’t felt this alone in a really long time. I haven’t let myself feel this alone.

I play with my phone, trying to decide if I should call him or not.

Not.

He said he needed some time on his own.

An hour? A day? A month?

There’s no one for me to ask.

I love Dad so much. But I can’t talk to him the same way I talked to Mom. It’s just different. They’re different.

I bend my knees up and hug them. “I miss you, Mommy,” I whisper. “I miss you so much.”

It isn’t until I’m shivering from the cold that I realize Dad’s been gone way longer than the twenty minutes it should have taken him to drop Carly, get milk, and make it back home.

Maybe he got caught up talking to Mrs. Conner when he dropped Carly off.

I pull out my phone and call him. Through my open window, I hear the faint sound of his ringtone inside the house. He forgot his phone. Again.

And the battery’s probably almost dead. Again. He has a habit of forgetting to charge it.

I duck back in through the window and head to his room. No phone on the dresser, but there’s a low oval dish that Mom used to keep potpourri in. I stare at it for a minute, really seeing it for the first time in ages. It’s full, but not with aromatic leaves. There are matchbooks in there.

I exhale a shocked breath. Dad wouldn’t smoke. He wouldn’t. He quit as soon as Mom was diagnosed. I don’t believe he’d start again.

I pick up a matchbook and open the flap. All the matchsticks are there. Same with the next one and the next. So he’s just collecting them; he’s not using them. I run my fingers over the glossy covers. Blue Mill Tavern. Dante’s Inferno. La Ronda Bar. Elk Bar. Dad must like that one; he has at least a dozen of their orange matchbooks.

My stomach clenches. I feel like I’m going to puke. All those nights Dad’s been out, he hasn’t been going to AA meetings. He’s been going to bars.

Is that where he is now? Is that why he’s so late?

I remember what Dad said to me back at the beginning of September, the words playing through my thoughts. I don’t have a problem. It’s all under control. I’m not one of those after-school specials, passed out on the couch, with three empty bottles of gin on the floor.

No, he’s not passed out on the couch. And the bottles aren’t gin. They’re vodka, like the one I found in his office when I was vacuuming.

He’s been lying to me. Lying to himself.

Am I supposed to forgive him for that? I need him. And he’s nowhere to be found. Not even when he’s sitting right across the dinner table from me.

I give up on finding his phone and stalk downstairs to the den. I pace to the front window, pull back the drapes, and stare at the empty street. Then I pace back to the couch.

I dial Carly’s number. She doesn’t answer.

I put my phone on the coffee table, line it up parallel to the converter, rearrange Dad’s fishing magazines so they’re perfectly straight. With a cry, I draw back my arm and swipe the surface, sending everything tumbling to the floor.

Then I pace back to the window and just stand there, waiting for the flare of headlights.

When the cruiser turns into my driveway, I’m not surprised. When the two police officers get out and walk to my front porch, settling their hats on their heads as they move, I’m not surprised.

And when I open the door and they start to speak, I’m not surprised.

I’m numb.

I don’t hear their words. They run together into a blur of sound.

I struggle to focus.

I pull the door wide as they step inside, removing their hats. Why did they put them on just to take them off again? It feels like such an important question.

“No shoes in the house,” I mumble.

I think they ask me my name, or maybe who I am. “Miki,” I say. “I’m Miki Jones.”

One of them asks me something else. I blink. Stare at them. He asks again. They want to know who else was in the car. She didn’t have ID. Do I know who she is?

“She didn’t need her wallet because she was just coming here,” I say. “She didn’t need money or anything. She didn’t want to go to the dance.”

The officer nods like I’m making perfect sense, but I think that maybe I’m not.

“Can you tell me her name?”