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Emma’s eyes shift from me to the house in front of us. She leans against me.

“This is where it happened.” I keep my voice low as I wrap an arm around her shoulders to hold her steady. “This is where you died.”

Emma nods as the tears continue to stream down her cheeks.

“Do you remember now?”

She stares into the dark windows of the vacant home. A for sale sign is posted in the tiny front yard behind the crumbling stone wall.

“Where did it happen?”

“In my room.” The words sound raw as she forces them out. She focuses on the right side of the house.

I guide her to a side-yard, about the size of an alley. We stand before the small two-story home, where a rotting picket fence leans precariously behind us.

“Where?” I prompt again.

Emma points to the window on the bottom floor. “Here.”

Still holding her tight against me, I ask, “Emma, what happened to you?”

And then I lose her to whatever happened inside this house, behind closed doors.

“I couldn’t move.” She sounds distant. “And I couldn’t see.”

Emma collapses against me. “I tried to get away, but I couldn’t. Then… then I felt her hands…” She brushes her neck, like she can still feel her aunt’s grip. “I fought so hard. There was… pain…”

She draws in a shocked breath. “My ankle…” Her eyes squeeze shut. “But then I just… I just gave up.”

I swallow back the lump in my throat, recognizing death’s temptation.

“But you didn’t, Emma. You didn’t give up. You’re here.”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” she sobs.

“Okay.” I brush my lips against her ear. “Okay, we’ll leave.”

The return drive to my apartment is silent.

When she lies on the couch with the blanket pulled up to her nose, she falls asleep instantly.

I cannot sleep. And it has nothing to do with a nightmare. I keep waiting to hear her cry out. But she remains asleep. I listen so intently for any hint of distress; I can hear her breathing from my loft.

Her phone started buzzing an hour after we got back. She’s supposed to be staying at her friend’s this weekend. But she was so exhausted, she looked like she was going to fall asleep standing. There was no way she could’ve driven anywhere.

So I texted her friend to let her know she wouldn’t be coming… as Emma. Line-crossing, maybe? But it’s better than making her friend worry. Emma can yell at me when she wakes up. Still can’t believe she’s sleeping.

Tonight was intense.

I wanted her to trust me. To believe that by remembering, she can now let it go. I’m not a fricken psychologist. But I kind of figured… I couldn’t make it worse.

I can’t believe what she survived. I don’t blame her for not wanting to remember. I may take on her nightmares if I think about it too much. Emma is so goddam strong. I’m in awe of her, to be honest.

The death of her father at a young age. The time she practically had to raise herself when Rachel was drowning her grief in alcohol. Being abandoned to a couple who tormented and abused her. Almost losing her life, only to then be placed back with that same mother who is just an older, yet immature, version of the neglectful parent she was five years ago.

I know this is a weird thing to think, but I admire Emma. For choosing to live. Finally confronting Rachel. And on top of it, getting accepted into an elite college on an athletic scholarship. I’m convinced this girl can do anything; all she has to do is want it enough.

I give up on sleep when the sun rises. Emma wakes a few hours later.