My family's new-to-me house is a Williamsburg Colonial, the same architectural style as Faircrest. But it's not genuinely old and the newness makes it look...sort of...fake. And this house is nowhere close to being mansion-sized. So my second impression is claustrophobic. The four of us barely fit in the kitchen—which is where we enter the house after Dad parks the van. Which barely fit inside the cramped garage.

But god, the smell in here.

It's food, obviously, something meaty and mouth-watering. Familiar, but I can't quite...

"What do you think?" Dad asks.

There's pride in his tone. So I give the room another scan, trying hard not to judge. But. Our cabinets in North Carolina were white. There were twice as many windows. And the kitchen opened up to the family room. This kitchen is closed off and crowded. It's like a cave with a six-burner gas range and an oversized stainless steel refrigerator.

Dad smiles when our eyes meet. And there's this glint in his dark eyes. Like he knows I'm making the comparison, and the Virginia house is coming up short. "It's a little darker than the kitchen you remember," he says. "But I have a plan to fix that."

"Your father has a lot of plans," Mom says. With a hint of sarcasm.

She adds a laugh to make it sound like a joke, but it's forced and unnatural. Which pretty much describes how she's been acting all morning.

"Go ahead and take Allyson up to her room," she tells Lindsay, but now her tone has the same extra-nervous quality it did the day I accidentally called her from Faircrest, and her eyes are jumping back and forth between us like she's...

Skeptical is the word that comes to mind, but I'm not sure it's right.

"Go ahead," Mom says again. "Dad and I will finish unloading the car."

My sister doesn't respond to Mom's order, not with a nod or even a look. She turns, stone-faced, and zombie-trods out of the room, giving no indication that she intends for me to follow. I trail behind her, through a narrow hallway that ends in a chocolate brown foyer. She takes the steep staircase, slow and methodical, skipping a step with each upward stride. But I have an embarrassing staircase phobia that goes back to a childhood tumble, so I have to take it one step at a time, securing both feet before I can move on to the next.

Lindsay waits for me, seemingly patient—but when I get to the landing, she speeds to the end of the hallway and stops, turning sideways to let me pass through the open door. Her eyes narrow slightly as she tracks my progress.

The walls in "my" bedroom are purple. I knew this already because of the photos Mom showed me, but seeing it now, live and in person is...I don't know. I guess I attached an emotion to those photographs. It wasn't comfort exactly, but at least it was somewhere in the vicinity. What I'm feeling now is closer to what it was like passing that car accident on the interstate after we left Faircrest.

We sat in traffic for all of an hour, inching closer and closer to the flashing lights. I kept telling myself I wasn't going to look, because I was imagining the worst and I didn't want to see something that bad in real life—not today of all days. By the time we got to the scene, I forgot the promise I made myself. I looked. But there was nothing to see because of the way the emergency vehicles were parked. It was like the Universe was protecting me.

Seeing this room now is the opposite. The walls didn't look this bad in the photos Mom showed me. I had myself convinced that it was a good purple—but I was so wrong. This is the color of death by asphyxiation.

And it smells bad, like someone spilled an entire bottle of perfume. It's claustrophobic and toxic.

"You don't like it?" Lindsay asks.

My sister has come back to life. Her dark eyes are bright and her rosy lips are pressed into a smile.

"It's hideous, right?" she asks.

I have to nod—because I can't speak.

"Crap, Ally. I'm sorry."

I shake my head, embarrassed because I'm crying and I don't want Lindsay to think it's because of purple walls. My tears are relief, mostly. Because all week long, I've been bombarded—but in the best possible way—by all the people who've played a part in my rehabilitation. There have been congratulations and reassurances and promises of prayers—and this morning, Penny came in on her day off to bring me a homemade going-away cake.

But the person whose approval I wanted the most has ignored me. Until now.

Lindsay loops her arm around mine and guides me to the bed. We plop down as one unit, on a white bedspread covered in bold black flowers with purple centers, and my tears come faster. It is absolutely hideous—and it was me, my choice. Eight weeks ago, I lived in this room and liked it.

"I shouldn't have made fun," she says.

"No, it's not you. I'm just...it's a lot. Of color."

I try to comfort her with a smile, but that just makes the worry lines dig deeper into her forehead. She releases my arm and leans back, stretching to grab the box of tissues off the tidy bedside table. She plucks one out and dangles it in front of me. And it's like this window opens up in my brain and out comes another fragment of my memory.

We've done this before. I don't know when or where or why I was upset, but my little sister was there for me, just like this. Except she was kneeling in front of me, and maybe the box of tissues was in her lap? But the look on her face was the same mix of worry and determination. Like she'd do anything to make me feel better.

"Are you sure you're ready for this to be more than a visit?" she asks.

"Yes, of course." I take the tissue, swipe my cheeks and crush it into a ball in my fist. "Everyone thinks I'm ready."

"Really?" she asks. "Has everyone asked?"

The way she emphasizes the word everyone makes me think she's talking about someone in particular. But I can't imagine who that would be—other than Lindsay. She is literally the only person I know who hasn't asked me that question. "Did you get any of my messages?"

"Yeah-sorry," she says, standing. "Come on. I want to show you something."

She offers her hand and when I take it, she pulls me to my feet. "Why didn't you call back?" I ask. "Or at least reply to one my texts?"

"I didn't call because it was busy around here. And honestly? Your texts didn't make a whole lot of sense."

"I was trying to explain that it wasn't my fault," I say. "I talked to one of the nurses—but not about the app you showed me. I told her that the..." 

I squeeze my eyes closed. I can picture the little square on my screen but I can't think of the name. "It's the app I use to listen to audio books. That one was logged out too. The nurse asked if I updated the software on my phone that night—and I had. The phone asked to do an update but I didn't want to stop reading the IM conversations, so I typed in my code and I guess it happened while I was asleep. I didn't know the update would log out my apps."

Lindsay squints, maybe a little skeptical.

"The nurse said the same thing happened to her phone," I say. "And I was going to reset the password—I tried—but the email address was..." Crap. "Wrong isn't the right word." I press my palm against my chest. I need to breathe, to calm down, so I can say what I'm trying to say.

"It's fine, Ally. It doesn't even matter now. Come on."

What? How can it not matter?

Before I can ask, my sister hooks her arm around mine and pulls me out of the purple cavern—into a room with walls the color of butter and an old wooden bed that's... "I know this furniture. Right?"

"Yeah," she says. "It was in our guest room in North Carolina. We used to play in there all the time when we were little. You were obsessed with some British television show, so we'd put on our church dresses and sneak Mom's wedding china so we could have High Tea."

"We ate the fancy cookies with red jelly centers," I say. "But Mom would always get annoyed with you for gnawing around the outside and wasting the best part."

"That only happened once," she says. "After that you ate all of my middles to keep me out of trouble."

My sister's tone is almost reverent, and it makes me feel...rooted. To her and to this room. I can live in this house. I can be the protective big sister I remember.

Lindsay gives my arm a little squeeze before she lets go. "I don't think anyone would mind if you slept in here," she says, hoisting herself onto the tall bed. "And we could paint the walls in your old room. It's hard to tell now, but it's the best room in the house. It has all those windows and a built-in bookshelf."

I have to nod again because the lump in my throat is back. But this time it's made of guilt, because my little sister is taking care of me, and it's supposed to be the other way around.

"Is that what you want, Allyson?"

Mom is here, relaxed against the doorjamb—which makes me think she's been there a while. "Would you like to sleep in here tonight?" she asks.

"Um, yeah. This room feels..." I turn to my sister, looking for something—moral support, or maybe the stupid word I need to complete my sentence—but her face is dull and lifeless. Her eyes are uninhabited.

How does she just blank out like that—and why? Does it have something to do with Mom?

"It's a little dusty in here," Mom says, shifting her weight, like she's peeling herself off the wall. "But that's an easy fix. I'll go get some..." She stops and cocks her head.

I heard it too: a noise that was like a question, except it wasn't really a word.

Mom kind of hop-steps out of the room and comes back cradling a snow-white cat. "This is Miss Magnolia." She lifts its paw and says, "Hi, Allyson. Would you like to hold me?" In an embarrassingly high-pitched tone.

Lindsay's eyes shift to Mom, then settle on mine. There's a glint of emotion, but it goes away too fast for me to identify. 

Not that I can concentrate with Mom leaning closer and closer with the cat that doesn't like the proximity anymore than I do—obviously, because it's pushing against her arm. Pushing away from me.

"Give her chin a scratch," Mom says. "I'm sure she misses you."

The cat is as new to me as this house. I've been told that "Mags" was a moving-to-a-new-state gift for me and Lindsay—and that for some reason it chose to love me more. But I don't think it's feeling that love now. I offer my hand, tentatively, because it seems important to Mom, and the thing hisses and bites me.

I yelp and it jumps out of her arms. "Wow," Dad says—and my heart thumps, because I didn't know he was up here too. "We usually get at least a three-lick warning before Mags bites. You better sleep with your door closed tonight."

His tone says he's trying to be funny. But I'm not amused and I don't have the energy to pretend. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I didn't mean to alarm you. Mags usually spends her nights prowling the great outdoors. I'll make sure that happens tonight."

I force a smile and try for a calming breath. I can't seriously be afraid of a little cat.

My phone rings, startling me again, and my stupid cheeks go hot. I shimmy it out of my pocket and read the caller ID. "Is that Noah?" Mom asks.

And Lindsay's jaw drops right off her face.

"Is it?" she asks. Her voice is field mouse small, like maybe she's more wounded than surprised. I should've told her about Noah's visit.

Except how could I—when she wouldn't answer any of my calls?

"Go ahead and answer it," Mom says. "We'll give you some privacy."

I shake my head and press the button to stop the demanding ringtone. Lindsay's face is noticeably paler. She's shaking her head too, but the movement is barely detectable. I only see because I'm looking for it. Or maybe because I'm imagining it? I drop the phone in my pocket. An action that should probably be accompanied by an explanation, but the words won't come.

"You could invite him over for dinner if you'd like," Mom says.

"Ally just got here," Lindsay says—and now it's my jaw that drops, because her tone is megaphone loud and seething. I have never heard my sister talk to our mom this way. "Do you ever stop thinking about yourself long enough to ask if she's even ready to see Dodge?"

Mom doesn't respond—not with words. Her glare is like a reprimand, or a warning. Lindsay straightens her back and lifts her chin, but her moment of defiance doesn't last because Mom is bolder. She's unwavering. "Go. To. Your. Room."

Lindsay spins around, hair flying, stomps across the hallway and slams her door. Then my parents have this silent exchange: Dad's eyebrows twist into a question; Mom shakes her head—meaning she can't or won't answer—and stalks out of the room, avoiding my eyes in a way that feels intentional.

I want to ask Dad what that was—this thing that just happened between Mom and Lindsay—but it's so obvious that he has no idea.

"Do you want help unpacking?" he asks. After Mom thunders down the stairs. "Or do you want privacy?"

"Um, yeah. You can go because..." I lift my phone, gripping it extra tight to keep my hand from trembling. "I should probably call. Noah is..." I can't finish the sentence because Noah is nothing. I haven't called or texted him since the day he visited Faircrest.

Dad doesn't wait for me to decide if I'm going to lie. He wraps me up in this awkward hug that comes and goes before I have a chance to hug back. Then he offers me a smile, but it's not his normal—it's not anywhere in the vicinity of Dad's usual calm and reassuring smile. His apologetic eyes say he knows that, but he leaves anyway. He shoots a worried glance in the direction of Lindsay's room and jogs down the stairs.

I close the guest room door and touch the Missed Call message on my phone, trying to find the voicemail screen, and the stupid thing automatically dials Noah's number. My index finger is right there, still pointing, but I can't convince myself to stop the call. He answers on the first ring. "Hey, I was going to leave a message. I wasn't sure if today was the day you were coming home."

Noah's voice surprises me—like I'm surprised by how amazingly good it feels to hear it. 

"Yes," I say. "I'm here."

"Are you all right?"

His tone is worried now. Instantly. How can he possibly know I'm upset? I only said three words. "I'm fine," I tell him. "It's just..."

It's not like this sensation is new to me. I almost always feel like I'm missing something. People say things I don't understand. Or they act in ways that don't make sense. And then at some point I realize it's not them, it's me. My new reality. Time has passed. People have changed. And I don't remember.

Noah sighs into the phone. Loud, like maybe he wants me to hear it. "Ally, I know you—I know what your voice sounds like when you're upset. What happened?"

"The cat bit me," I say—which is the least of my problems, but it's the only thing I think I can explain. "It's like she knows I'm not the person I'm supposed to be."

"That dumbass cat used to bite you every other day."

"Really?"

"I swear to God. What else?"

My tears start again. Like a small facial flood. Because Noah Dodge hasn't changed—not for me. I don't remember what he was like before. All I know is that the easy cadence of his voice and all those lazy vowels make me feel comforted. Comfortable. And I saw his face in a dream.

"How can I help you, Ally? Do you need to get out of there for a little while? I could be on your front doorstep in fifteen minutes."

"Yes."

"Good," he says. "I'm already in my car."