She really is dying.

She’s already dead.

She is brain dead.

Dead, dead, dead.

We were rich. We were healthy. We were strong. Invincible, really. So why couldn’t we stop it from happening?

I resorted to texting Aunt Em.

Knight: Just tell me she’s alive.

Emilia: She is.

Knight: Y is Dad being an asshole, then?

Emilia: Have you been taking care of yourself over there?

Uh-oh. She didn’t even give me shit for my nonexistent grammar and for cussing Dad. Not a good sign.

Knight: Tell me what to prepare myself for.

Emilia: Reality.

I hated everyone. Other than Luna, maybe, but I couldn’t talk to her before I had more information. It was the middle of the night in North Carolina now, and she had school tomorrow.

When the cab slid to the hospital curb, I stumbled out, the Xanax and alcohol already kicking it in my bloodstream. I decided it was probably a good idea to alternate between mouthwash and actual liquor when I almost threw up on the front desk while asking for Mom’s room.

The overnight receptionist directed me to the end of the hall. As I zigzagged my way there, my phone began to buzz in my pocket. I took it out, hoping Luna had a sixth sense.

Alas, it was Dixie. I sent it straight to voicemail and texted, All good, speak soon.

My dad was standing in the hallway, looking like a piece of dried toast—crumbling at the edges, completely burned out. The minute he saw me, instead of hugging me, or telling me it was good to have me back, or asking me, oh, I don’t know…how the fuck I was doing, he scowled and threw an accusing finger my way.

“You.”

“Me,” I pretended to yawn, getting near him.

Big mistake. Huge. Now he could smell the mouthwash. He wasn’t stupid enough to think I’d gone all dental-hygiene crazy in the span of a weekend.

“Nice touch, son. Showing up here reeking of alcohol when your mother is hospitalized.”

“Thanks, man. And I appreciate you keeping me in the loop as to what the fuck is going on with said mom.” I collapsed onto a blue chair outside her room.

He was right, though. She didn’t have to be healthy to know I looked like shit and smelled not much better.

“Where’s Lev?” I asked.

“At the Rexroths’.”

“Why not Aunt Em?”

“She’s on her way.”

“Look, I’m not that drunk. Can I see Mom?” I rubbed my face tiredly, closing my eyes.

“No,” he clipped, bracing his arm against the wall and looking down at his shoes.

She was asleep, then. I folded my arms, about to find a comfortable angle and call it a night. Mom could sleep for hours on end at the hospital. The shit they plugged into her, paired with the steroids, meant she went through spurts of random energy, followed by crashes and days of sleep.

I closed my eyes, mentally reminding myself to let Vaughn know I needed to bum a ride to school tomorrow morning, when Dad’s loafer kicked my shin. Not gently, either. My eyes cracked open.

“Wake up.” He balled up the collar of my shirt, yanking me to my feet.

Suddenly we were nose to nose. I narrowed my eyes at him. He’d never been physical with me before. My heart started pounding.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“You’re my problem!” he seethed, baring his teeth. “Your attitude is my problem. Your selfishness, to just up and…and…leave for a girl,” he spat the word out, his breath ragged as he flung his big arms in the air, pushing away from me. “You know what my problem is? My problem is your mom is not okay, and here you are, drinking and smoking yourself to death, thinking we don’t know. Thinking we don’t care. When, put simply, I’m trying to extinguish the fires in my life one at a time. My house is on fucking fire, Knight,” Dad boomed, his voice ricocheting off the walls.

The entire hallway shook with his dark tenor. Nurses and patients peeked out of half-ajar doors, bug-eyed, and two male nurses straightened from their slumped positions against the reception booth and headed in our direction.

“Why don’t you just go ahead and say it?” I smiled sardonically, opening my arms. “You wish you hadn’t adopted me. One less bullshit problem to deal with, right? But you knew this was going to happen. She did, too. You knew we’d be here someday, and you still had us.”

Asshole, drunk Knight had struck again. I really hated my intoxicated alter ego. He had no filters whatsoever.

What was I saying? Why was I saying this? Because there was a part of me that believed it to be true. My mother knew she was going to die young. She’d still adopted me. She’d still had Lev. His name meant heart in Hebrew, but it was lungs she needed. It was her lungs that failed her. And our hearts were broken.