“Oh, I just knew it!” she said, pushing me down into a chair: The sore spot on my side hit against the armrest and I cringed, sucking in a breath. She didn't notice. “Jack, didn't I tell you walking back from Boo's I slipped there? Didn't I? Caitlin, was Rogerson with you?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “He dropped me off and then when I started up the walk my feet just flew out from under me.”

“Well,” my father said, his gaze steady on my face, “it looks like you hit right there on your jaw. Get that ice pack out of the freezer, Margaret, before the swelling gets any worse.”

“I'm fine,” I said again. “It doesn't even hurt anymore.” It was strange that I didn't even consider telling the truth. I was just stoned and bleary, so cried out that all I could think of was curling up on my bed and going to sleep. Rogerson had lit the bowl without even a word, even as I sat there beside him, my ears ringing, and after a few hits everything just seemed to fade out. Increasingly, that was the way the pot worked with me lately. After a couple of hits, whatever had been bothering me drifted to arm's length, like the end of a song on the radio you can just barely hear, just fading away. And then he pulled me close to him, told me he loved me and kissed me hard and urgently, his hand curling around the back of my neck, the way he knew I liked it. As if somehow, that way, he could give back what he'd taken from me. And I let him. Now, I closed my eyes as my father pressed the ice pack against my face, making it sting as the coolness seeped in slowly. I told myself i had too many secrets already: the drugs, cigarettes, my downward cheerleading spiral. If I let one out, the rest would tumble behind it, out of my control, like wild horses let loose to stampede. It was funny. What I'd loved most about Rogerson was that he took me to a place so far from anywhere Cass had been. And now, him hitting me was the same thing. Cass wouldn't have taken up with Rogerson, just like she never would have stayed with anyone who hurt her. But I wasn't Cass, not even close. I was weaker. And I'd keep this secret before I'd prove that again. “You need to keep this there until the swelling goes down,” my father said now, taking my hand and pressing it against the ice pack. “Okay?”

“It's just so red,” my mother said in a worried voice. “You must have hit so hard.”

“Yeah,” I told her, averting my eyes. “I did.” My father was putting on his jacket. “I'm going to go put some salt on the walk,” he said to my mother. “I think we've got some left over from last year out in the shed.”

“Yes, yes, it's behind the potting soil,” she said, following him down the stairs. “And Jack, make sure you check the whole spot, won't you? I'd hate to see anyone else get hurt.” I moved the ice pack to my cheek. I could still taste blood in my mouth. “Now, Caitlin,” my mother said as she came back up the stairs, the door clicking shut behind my father. “I'm going to run a hot bath for you. Won't that be nice? And when you're done, I'll bring dinner to your room so you can eat in bed, and rest. Okay?”

“Mom, you don't have to”

“Hush. Go get undressed and I'll let you know when it's ready.” She started out of the kitchen, then stopped and put her hand on my shoulder, bending down to kiss me gently on the forehead. She smelled like vanilla and Joy perfume, and suddenly I felt like I might start crying again. “You really scared me, Caitlin,” she said, smiling as she brushed her fingers through my hair. “I don't know what I would do if something happened to you.” I could tell her, I told myself. I could tell her right now and fix this. I could say that he hits me and I hate cheerleading and I miss Cass but I know why she left and I wish I could make everything better but I can't, I can't, I can't even tell you where it hurts, not now. “Don't worry,” I said instead, as she ruffled my hair and walked away, my mother, to do what she did best, to take care of me. “I'm fine.” When I went to my room to change into my bathrobe, my father was still outside, scattering salt by hand down the length of our walk. When he reached the front steps he went back, across the grass, to the spot by the mailbox where I'd told him I'd fallen, and scattered another handful there. Then, as I watched, he spent a good five minutes scraping his foot back and forth across the pavement, searching for slick spots, as if that was all it would take to keep us safe.

When my mother tucked me in that night, I was half asleep, my face sore, my belly full of chicken-​broccoli casserole. She kissed my cheek carefully, not wanting to hurt me, then walked to my doorway and stood there in silhouette, her hand curled over the doorknob. “Good night, honey,” she said. “I'll see you in dreamland.” I was too tired to answer her. That night, I didn't find my mother in my dreams. But for the first time since she'd left, I saw Cass.

The dream itself was long and complicated. Eliza Drake was there, and Corinna, and Mrs. Garver, my fourth grade teacher. We were in the Lakeview Mall, searching for something having to do with aluminum, running to the far end, near the Sears store. I was passing an empty storefront, just glass and empty inside, when I saw Cass. She was standing a few feet away, on the other side, but when I stopped she came closer. “Cass?” I said, and Mrs. Garver was yelling at me to come on, hurry up, now, now. She smiled at me, cocking her head to the side. She was wearing this bright red sweater and I remember wondering if she was stuck in there, trapped somehow. “Good luck,” she said to me, raising one hand and pressing her palm against the glass separating us. As if she could see the future, hers and mine, everything. “Wait,” I said, “Cass”