The hallway outside is buzzing.Someone’s watching reruns ofHappy Daysdown the hall—sunny voices and old theme music bleeding through the open door, too cheerful for a place like this.Laughter erupts near the vending machine, sharp and sudden, punched out of someone who hasn’t had a reason to smile in a while.
I look back once more.Dr.Keller doesn’t follow me to the door.Instead, she says, “Remember what I told you: if it gets hard, that doesn’t mean you’re failing.It just means you’re growing.”
I nod once.Then I step into the corridor into the unknown.
ChapterTwo
Roderick
April 13th, 1997
When I step outside the building, the sky’s the same dull gray it’s been for days—maybe weeks.Maybe my whole life.
The thing about Seattle is that it doesn’t do bright and sunny unless you beg for it.Today isn’t any different—low clouds, damp air that seeps into your sleeves and settles in your bones.Everything feels quieter, like the city’s whispering instead of speaking loudly.
It fits.
I take the back path near the garden, the one with the gravel walkway and the half-dead lavender.This is where they made us do mindfulness exercises.I walk slowly, pretending I’m not fighting the urge to turn around and beg them to let me stay for another fifty days.Or fifty years.
When I reach the parking lot, I spot Cleo’s avocado-green Corolla idling where it absolutely shouldn’t be.She’s had it since high school.The paint’s faded to a patchy olive, the side mirror is held on with duct tape, stubborn as hell, and still kicking.
I’ll never understand why she still has that car when she could afford something better.She has the money.But Cleo never cared much for appearances.If anything, the car suits her—blunt, stubborn, impossible to total.Believe me, life has tried.My sister is a terrible driver and is always hitting it with something—mostly stationary objects.
She’s leaning against the driver’s side door; arms crossed over a faded gray hoodie layered under a denim jacket.Her black jeans are ripped at the knees and tucked into beat-up combat boots.One foot keeps tracing slow arcs on the pavement, like she’s got thoughts she doesn’t want to share.Cleo never shares things, unless it’s gossip or she’s too sad—which is almost never.Her hair’s twisted into a low knot, held up with a pencil that probably came from her glovebox.
She looks up when she sees me and pushes off the car with a nod, as if this is just another day ending in y.Like I haven’t been absent for so long.
“Hey,” she says softly, pushing off the car.“You look ...not like shit.That’s promising.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.“Thanks.You’re glowing with sisterly affection.”
“Don’t get used to it.”Her voice tightens, just a touch.“C’mere.”
She wraps her arms around me before I can dodge or deflect.It’s not a long hug, not particularly graceful.But it’s affectionate, probably the first demonstration of love I’ve had since the last Christmas I joined the family—though I don’t remember when it was.Probably eight years ago?
Cleo smells like spearmint and too much laundry detergent, and her grip has a quiet strength—like she’s supporting both of us, just in case I can’t.
When she releases her grip, she clears her throat and jerks her thumb toward the car.“Shotgun’s yours.I cleaned out the old takeout containers.It felt like a special occasion.”
I huff a laugh and nod, then duck into the passenger seat.She climbs in beside me, starts the engine, and looks over at me as if she’s waiting to see if I’ll fall apart.
“You good?”
I nod.“Getting there.”
She doesn’t push.Just pulls into traffic with ease.
“You hungry?”she asks, taking a sharp right.
I shake my head, then hesitate.“Yeah.Maybe.I think so, but I don’t want to stop at a public place.”
As she merges onto the highway, she says, “No worries.There’s food at your place.I stocked the fridge.”
“You stocked?—?”
“Your place.The apartment I picked for you.Don’t worry, there’s no inspirational wall art or anything.”
I glance at her.“You got me an apartment?”
