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Karen glances at the screen. “Your blood work came back. Doesn’t look like you had an infection, so it was likely just a flu bug of some sort.”

A flu bug I poured down Nadine’s throat out of my own.

“Okay,” I say lightly, spearing a strawberry.

Karen’s teeth clamp down tight on her lips to keep her from saying all the things she wants to say to me. The Hippocratic oath must be a real bitch. I see the edge of Angela’s sleeve as Karen slips out the door, closing it behind her.

From Brandy

News says 2 more inches tonight

County on level 2

B kinda cool to hit level 3

No—3 is total shutdown, emergency vehicles only on roads.

Brandy doesn’t answer, so I assume she understands why a level 3 would be bad. I need people on the roads. I need people losing control. I need screeching metal and failed brakes. I need sirens and panicked, unanswered phone calls.

I need people to die.

And soon.

thirty-six

Amanda is not happy with me. I can tell because her eyebrows are tightly knit, which is a poor choice on her part because it’s obvious she overplucked one of them when they’re together like that. The afternoon sun isn’t doing her any favors either, making her squint from the glare off the snow outside.

“Your dad said he thinks it’s better to keep distance between you and your mother right now,” Amanda says.

“Better for her,” I say. It’s not a question.

“And he said he’ll make the drive once the roads are cleared.”

“Are they still that bad?”

Amanda mistakes my interest for a sincere need to see him. “The plows were out all last night and into the morning,” she says. “I’m sure he’ll get here as soon as he can.”

I’m not sure about that at all, but I let it slide for now.

Amanda has drawn her feet up onto the chair, her knees at her chin. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Was this . . .”

She shakes her head quickly, as if to discourage herself from asking the question. Asking if it was Shanna or me who did this, pouring breakfast and bile and salt water into another girl. But asking that would mean I’m not better, that her miraculous microwave box of healing didn’t work.

“Karen wants to have your mental condition reevaluated ASAP.” Amanda pronounces the acronym phonetically. I wish everyone would start doing that with the American Heart Association. It would make all our conversations so much more spontaneous.

“I don’t know if I can really argue against that, at this point,” Amanda goes on.

“I was sick. I puked,” I say.

“Yeah, I know. But given your past history with Nadine I don’t know if I can make it fly.” She sighs and rolls one foot, her ankle cracking. “What do you want?”

I want to stay where there’s a knife under my mattress and a bottle of Oxy rolled in my sock. I want someone with an O neg heart to die. I want to fill out my jeans again and get plastic surgery on my face. I want Heath standing next to me in our senior prom photo because we fit. I want to see my bedroom again and close the window I should have never gone out of in the first place. I want my life back. I want future Sasha Stone to be a real thing, a real girl, an end goal I can invest in.

“I want to stay here, if I can.”