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learned? Yeah, anything besides thinking about Daniel, ER rooms, and illegal drugs.
    She says, “What kind of weird? Is it time we visit the doctor about…”
    â€œOh, God. No!” She’s referring to getting me birth control pills when I’m serious about a guy. That would be simple compared to this. “Someone is involved in some really bad stuff and he could get seriously hurt. I want to help him, but…I don’t think there’s anything I can do.”
    â€œOh. Maybe Dad…” Dad’s the touchy feely; Mom likes the practical stuff like birth control.
    â€œNo, not Dad. He’ll go on and on about what is morally right and what isn’t. Then what’s legal and what isn’t. He’ll insist I tell him and I can’t do that. It isn’t my stuff to share.”
    â€œBut if this friend could get hurt, aren’t you obligated to tell us?”
    I think about Gravel Voice, Daniel’s handler. “No, not this time.”
    Everything explodes inside—memories of the smell of Daniel’s copper and brass gory blood, the sounds of his groans and of boots smashing into flesh, the weight and feel of the drug baggie, and the gravel rasp of She-Wants-to-Buy-Drugs’ voice. Like a five-year-old, I climb into mom’s arms and bawl. Side by side, we lie on the sofa while she holds me tight and strokes my back, not saying a word. I love her for that.
    When it’s over, I use another tissue to wipe away tears and snot. I hadn’t broken apart like this even after Grandma died. Then she says, “You’re growing up, Kami. You’ll have secrets, but I’m here when you want to share. Just promise me one thing?”
    It comes out like a planned speech. While I cried, she decided what to say. “What?”
    â€œThink how you’ll feel if something happens to your friend? We’re here to help.”
    Crappy , but what can Mom and Dad do to help? Daniel’s dealing drugs, but he’s working with the police. Anything we do can screw it up. Mom waits, hoping I’ll share my secret. I don’t. I know her well. She’s going to tell Dad. They’ll give me space to work it out, maybe a week—no more. And then there’d be a TALK. I hate TALKs.
    The TV moves on to Late Night recast of Craig Ferguson. We laugh at whatever he says—funny or not. It’s good to be in Mom’s arms; they’re warm and safe. Why hadn’t I ever climbed into them after Grandma died? Sage…Thud. Sweet honeysuckle…Thud.
    Blizzard warnings for a late Saturday into Sunday storm scroll across the television. Everything will shut down for twenty-four hours once it hits.
    â€œThere goes our ride on Sunday,” I say. Sundays we ride. Mom owns a quarter horse named Suzy and boards her at a nearby stable. They aren’t my thing. I ride, but not well—still, once a week, I’m happy to share her big beast passion. It’s our together time.
    She says, “Lessons will close down early tomorrow. How about we go Saturday instead and try to beat the storm?” Saturdays, the stable arena is booked. Early morning is the hunter/jumper lessons; late morning, the newbies have beginning lessons; and then, in the afternoon, the Western students show up for lessons and ring work. Evening is an older crowd hanging out. Mom’s right. Tomorrow with the blizzard, it would clear out early.
    â€œSure,” I say and snuggle down into her vanilla warmth and love.

Five
    The cold bites at my nose while we saddle. Outside, the bright sun cuts through the tree-lined path to the public riding trails along the river. We follow the snow-trampled prints of other horses. My rented ride’s a long-legged, bay school horse named Henry. Suzy has a shorter stride but the bay’s so lazy, I have to push him to keep up.
    The river we’re beside is the same one from last night, only eight miles north. With that