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time.
    When I wake up, again, the sunlight is streaming into the room and two guys are watching the news from the other couch. I sit up, and the afghan slides off my shoulders and pools around me.
    “Sleeping Beauty awakens.” The guy returns his attention to the news. The second guy glances over at me, as if he hadn’t noticed me before, and also goes back to watching TV.
    A familiar voice on the news steals my attention.
    “The real victim in the crime is my client,” Mom says, and a mix of pride, pain and longing ping-pongs through my body at the sound of her voice. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was framed by the police and the woman.” The TV flashes to a picture of her “innocent” client, who was charged with drug possession and physical assault.
    Not wanting to hear any more, I pick up my textbook and leave. God, does she seriously believe he’s innocent? That he’s the victim?
    I want to call her and scream into the phone that she’s wrong, and ask her how she can defend guys like that after what happened to me. But good girls never scream. Paul taught me that.
    My body aches at what else he taught me.
    Brittany’s not in our room. I grab my clothes and toiletries, and head to the bathroom. Luckily, there’s no line to use the showers. I turn on the water as hot as it will go, which isn’t as hot as I would like. How can Mom defend jerks like that? I know the whole spiel about how everyone deserves a fair trial, but where’s the fairness in what he did? The woman didn’t ask for that to happen to her. Why should she be made to feel like the criminal?
    I bounce my fingers against my thigh before catching myself. Unlike usual, it does nothing to drive away the agitation. There’s only one thing that can do that, and I don’t play it anymore.
    Brittany still isn’t in our room when I return. My side is slightly messy with my bed unmade and books scattered on my desk. Her side is beyond neat, with everything lined up and her bed made with hospital corners. Mom would love Brittany.
    I squish the temptation to sit on her bed to see if Brittany notices. She hates me as it is. Violating her personal space would push her over the edge. And the old Amber would never do anything as risky as that.
    But the old Amber never said no, and look where that got me.
    Someone knocks at the door. “Amber, it’s me,” Jordan says. “You ready?”
    I open the door and wave her in. “I just need to wrap my ankle first.”
    “How’s it doing?”
    “Better. At least I can walk without crutches. That’s saying something.” In the grand range of ankle sprains, this one’s minor.
    As I wrap my ankle with the elastic bandage that Jordan bought for me yesterday, even though I don’t really need it, my cell phone plays a few bars of classical music. For a fleeting second I consider letting Mom’s call go to voice mail.
    With a sigh, I turn away from Jordan and answer the phone. “Hi, Mom.”
    “Amber. I’m glad I reached you.” Her tone isn’t warm and motherly. It’s professional, as if I’m a client instead of her daughter. “How are you doing?”
    Not too great. I’m having nightmares and flashbacks. You know , the usual. “Good.”
    “And your classes are going well?”
    “Yes.” No.
    “That’s good.”
    “Is there anything you need?”
    Yes. For you to tell me you love me . “No. I’m good, thanks.”
    “All right. I’ll let you get to class now. And Amber”— I love you and miss you and don’t blame you for what happened even if you do , I want her to say—“I’ll be busy with a new case. So if you need anything, let my assistant know. Okay?”
    “Okay.” The word cracks but I doubt she notices. She hangs up before I can. I turn back to Jordan, a smile pasted on my face. “Ready to go?”
    “Is everything okay?”
    I try to turn my smile into a real grin to reassure her, though I have a feeling it resembles a grimace. “Everything’s fine. My mom was busy but