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dream.
    Sherlock whines softly, and my eyes begin to burn. But then I remember my mother crying at the table, and the stinging is replaced by a flush of adrenaline.
    Of anger.
    Not at the guy who crashed into our bus.
    Not at God. At me.
    I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and give Sherlock a kiss on the muzzle. “Where’s your ball, boy?”
    He scrambles across the room, fetches it from his bed, and drops it in my lap.
    I’m already wearing the sweatpants Mom shortened on the right side. They’re quick and comfortable, and I don’t have to deal with a floppy pant leg. My sweatshirt is within reach, so getting dressed is easy, and really, Sherlock deserves better than what I’ve been delivering.
    I pull on the sweatshirt.
    Slip into a shoe.
    Rake my hair into a ponytail.
    Sherlock spins in a circle and barks.
    “Shhh!” I whisper. “Just the ball, okay?” I put the tennis ball in front of his face so he’s clear about what we’re doing before I let him out.
    He wags and pants, and when I’m pretty sure we have an agreement, I ease open the front door and hop out after him.
    He waits for me at the bottom of the porch steps.
    “Good boy,” I tell him, then set up to throw the ball across the front yard.
    It’s not a big yard, so it would help if I could go into one corner and throw to the other, but I didn’t bring a crutch, and with Mom’s flower beds the way they are, there’s nothing I can use for support.
    So I just toss the ball from beside the pipe railing and teach Sherlock to put the ball in my hand instead of at my feet.
    My foot.
    He has fun, and when I’m worn out, I sit on the porch step and pet him and tell him he’s a good, good boy.
    It’s peaceful out, and for a moment I enjoy sitting with Sherlock, sharing the morning.
    But then I hear something.
    Something that makes my heart leap, then crash to the pit of my stomach.
    I don’t want to hear this.
    Don’t want to see it.
    Still, I can’t turn away.
    Sherlock’s ears perk. He stops panting and stares out at the sidewalk too, so I hold on to his collar, afraid that he’ll bolt off the porch.
    And then there he is.
    In light gray sweats.
    Lost in his own rhythmic world.
    A runner.

 
    I BUMP INTO K AYLEE on my way back inside.
    She barely grunts hello.
    “Good morning to you too,” I tell her as she goes past me again with a pair of jeans out of the dryer.
    She stops in her tracks and turns to face me. “You’re criticizing
me
for being grumpy?”
    “Well, you just blast by me like I’m not even here.”
    “So … I’m supposed to be a mind reader?”
    “What’s
that
supposed to mean?”
    She puts a hand on her hip. “Look, you act like you hate everyone and everything, you never talk.… What do you want from me?”
    I look from side to side. “Uh … a little civility?”
    “Nice idea,” she says, pounding up the stairs. “Why don’t you try it?”
    I stand there for a good five minutes, stunned.
    I want to shout, Why don’t you try losing a leg and see what it’s like.
    I want to chase her up the stairs and yell at her for being bratty and unfeeling and … and just
wrong
.
    Instead, I go back to bed and hug Lucas the bear, and when Mom leaves to take Kaylee to school, I pretend to be asleep.
    When they’re gone, I’m relieved. Dad’s already left for a job, so I have the house to myself.
    Me, myself, and my thoughts.
    At first I’m glad to be alone. I don’t have to pretend to be fine.
    But I can’t seem to get Kaylee’s words out of my head.
    Soon I feel anchored to my bed.
    Caged in this wide-open room.
    The phone rings, and when I check caller ID, I see that it’s Fiona’s cell. I almost don’t answer, but at the last minute I punch talk. “Are you ready?” she asks. “I’m on my way over to pick you up.”
    She says the same thing every morning.
    “No,” I answer.
    Just like every morning.
    “C’mon, Jessica,” she says with a sigh. “You can’t put it off forever.”
    “Watch