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Linnea went to the bedroom door and scooted the dresser back. She cracked the door and poked her head out as if listening. “I gotta go clean up. I hate doing it in the morning before school.”

Ulla slid off the bed and dropped the spread, feeling warmer now. “Do you need help?”

Linnea shrugged and Ulla followed her out. They went past another bedroom awash in posters and clothes strewn on every inch of the carpet. “That’s Abby’s room, my older sister,” she said. “She usually goes to a friend’s house.”

They treaded down the carpeted stairs the color of lakeweed, toward an eerie glow that Ulla realized was coming from a four-legged Zenith color TV. It was so late, there was no program on—just a blue screen. Ulla scrunched her nose at the strong smell of—something. Not cigar or cigarette smoke she recognized from the parties Peter had thrown. A pang of bitter nostalgia whacked Ulla. Of Peter with Ulla on his hip, a cigar between his teeth as he danced her around.

“Oh, hey Lin-Lin, you have a friend?” Ulla whirled at the sound of a woman’s slurred, soft voice.

Linnea went to the woman slouched on the sofa wearing a boozy smile. “Where’s Daddy?” she asked. This was clearly her mother, but she was shockingly thin, a human skeleton. Linnea’s mother inclined her head upstairs and groaned, trying to sit up. Linnea said, “Stay there,” then turned to Ulla. “Can you watch her?”

Ulla pulled a worried face.

“I just don’t want her trying to walk. She hit her head once.”

Linnea’s mother sank deep into the folds of the worn couch. Linnea dashed to the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards under a sink filled with rotting dishes. She emerged with a black garbage bag and started to work. From the kitchen table, she swept a pile of plastic cups, Heineken bottles, Coors, Michelobs, and Pepsi cans into the bag. She took a soiled napkin and used it to cautiously pick up three needles and thin, brown tubing, and plopped them into the bag as well. She crouched underneath the table, collecting cigarette butts. Linnea attacked the living room next, scraping debris off the coffee table and television.

An unearthly scream cut through the air outside. It sent zaps straight from Ulla’s heart to her head. Linnea froze, and her mother even struggled upright, as if sobered.

It grew louder: Ulla! Ulla clapped a hand over her mouth and then hissed, “Mamma!”

Linnea’s eyes bugged. Both girls went for the front door, and Ulla, having forgotten her ice dunk earlier, sprinted into the freezing dark. She didn’t make it far in socks once hitting the snow. “Mamma!” she shouted at the top of her lungs.

“Ulla!” Crunching, sprinting steps drew closer, and from around the home appeared her mother’s wild face. Her coat was open, and she was in a nightgown, bare legs stuck into her boots. She didn’t grab Ulla or cry in relief. She stopped and bent over as if wheezing, as if she couldn’t breathe, and grabbed her knees.

When it seemed Ronja could breathe, she lifted her face, and Ulla now saw it was stained with horrified tears. Her mother staggered to Ulla and clutched her shoulders, shaking her head. Her words came out as white, gasping plumes into the cold air. “I—where—how—?” Finally, Ronja’s pained face met Ulla’s as she gathered more air. “Where did you go! How could you—?” And then she crushed her daughter into her arms. Ronja’s hands patted Ulla’s wet hair. She pulled back, studying more of Ulla’s appearance. Baffled. Her eyes darted to someone behind her.

Ulla followed Ronja’s gaze to see Linnea’s mother, holding onto the door jamb.

Ronja appeared to compose herself with such lightning speed it was as if an alien had taken over her body, except her eyes remained blotchy. In a steady voice, she spoke to Ulla in Swedish. “You will explain everything when you get home. No lies.”

Ulla nodded, shivering.

“Your boots?” Ronja persisted in Swedish.

Ulla’s eyes welled, and she shook her head.

Ronja smiled brightly at Linnea and her mother. “I am terribly sorry for the disruption. It seems there has been some,” her eyes snapped to Ulla’s, “miscommunication. I don’t recall her being invited for a sleepover.”

Ulla looked to Linnea, peering behind her mother.

Ronja extended her hand. “I’m Ulla’s mother, Ronja. We live across the lake.”

“Oh, sure,” tittered Linnea’s mother with a wobbly acceptance of the handshake, “I’m Margie.” She’d drawn out the oh a little too long, enough for Ulla to register the alcohol fumes streaming from it. “Well, we woulda introduced ourselves, but you know how time gets away. Jesus, it’s cold.” She rubbed herself, and Ulla followed her mother’s sharp eyes, landing on the bluish, red streaks of Margie’s forearms.

“Yes. It is,” said Ronja. “Ulla, I can carry you home.”

Margie held up a finger. “Lemme get Dick, Lin’s dad, he can give you a lift home.”

“No, we’ll survive.” Ronja skimmed Ulla’s meager clothing and took off her coat, draping it over her daughter. “Come,” she demanded in Swedish. “On my back.” Ronja turned and squatted.

Ulla normally would’ve been mortified to climb onto her mother’s back, but the circumstances were already embarrassing enough. She swept her eyes to Linnea who lifted a hand in goodbye, but Ulla saw the plea: Don’t leave.

Ulla begged in Swedish, “Can Linney come over, Mamma, please. Let her stay with us!”

Ronja turned around and sucked an aggravated breath, but then it seemed she, too, fully read Linnea’s situation. She released a puff of resignation. In what Ulla recognized as a false show of apology, she palmed her forehead. “I remember now, the girls had wanted a sleepover. I didn’t think much of it. I should’ve called you. Ulla was just telling me how they came over to grab some things and, gosh, I panicked when I woke up. They probably assumed I’d keep sleeping.”

Ulla chimed in, “We took the shortcut across the lake, but I fell in the fishing hole.”