An older guy, I'm assuming Lorie's husband, but I haven't seen either of them in a decade and a half, opens the front door to meet us. He doesn't smile like Lorie, though. He definitely seems more skeptical of me and my presence here. When you've felt as unwanted for as long as I have, you gain a sixth sense about that sort of thing. This guy does not want me here.

He barely raises his hand to me as he says, "Hey Everett."

"Ev, do you remember your uncle Wes? It's been a long time," Lorie says, stopping between us for the customary introductions before I enter the house.

"Barely, but yeah, hey," I say. "Thanks for having me."

I can't tell who is less enthused: me or Wes. It's almost like we are having a monotone-off when he comes back with, "Yeah, sure. Well, come on in, buddy," while he steps aside to make room for Lorie and I to come inside. Lorie starts in, and I follow close behind.

Once inside, a big, grey-faced German Shepherd runs up to me and jumps up to put his huge paws on my chest, pushing me back against some coats hanging from the wall in this little entryway part of the house. I don't like dogs, so I spring arms up in surrender and let the F-word slip.

"We don't use that language in this house," Wes scolds me as he grabs the dog's collar to pull him down. "This is our dog Rufus. His bark is worse than his bite, he's just an old man now. So... no need to worry."

"OK," I say. Back at the trailer park, just about every drug dealer had a dog. Usually these massive, roidy-looking beasts that they'd keep on short chains just outside their doors, and I always hated them. They terrified me and kept me from ever playing in my "yard" area as a kid. Anytime I'd want to go outside, I'd head down to the creek where I could finally get some peace and quiet from the dogs. So to say I'm not thrilled to live with a big dog is an understatement.

Sure, Wes, I won't worry. I'll just repress years of terrifying memories involving dogs, that's no problem.

"Kids, come down," Lorie shouts up the stairs directly in front of us. "Your cousin is here."

I'm sure her kids have very little excitement about seeing me, since I literally never met my younger cousin, Lorie told me her name was Selina in the car, and there's only one picture of me and Greg together, back when we were both around a year old. I have zero memory of this, and I doubt Greg does either.

While I wait for this inevitably awkward "reunion," I take a look around the house. It's put together like maybe Lorie opened up some Better Homes and Gardens magazine and then just duplicated all of the decor. It doesn't look like a place where people actually live unless this is how people actually live. To the left of this little coat and shoe-lined entryway is a dining room, through which I can catch a glimpse of the kitchen. Everything looks nice and clean, like people don't even live here. There's even a fresh bouquet of wildflowers in a clear vase on their dark wood table. Do people actually do that? Keep flowers in their house like that all the time?

To the right of this little coat and shoe-lined entryway is a small living room, complete with a fireplace, piano, and set of dark brown leather couches to compliment the light blue walls. Pictures of the family hang on the wall in brown frames. Ones with Nan that I've never seen that actually sort of piss me off. The four of them, plus Nan, are standing in a group in the middle of a field at sunset, and if you didn't know, it would look like a photograph of any regular family. They would seem really happy to anyone but me. Because when I think about the other half of this family that was left out of the picture to make them seem normal or cute or Instagram-worthy or whatever, I'm pissed that this picture even exists. Wes pulls the dog toward a door in this room that looks like it opens onto a side patio area before the yard turns into Lorie's "farm." I'm pissed enough about the pictures to hope that that dog shits on all her plants.

Down the staircase that splits the first floor in half, step my cousins. Selina is actually sort of running down before she jumps past the final two steps and wraps her arms around my waist.

"I've been waiting to meet you forever," she says into my stomach. She has the same blonde hair as Janette, Lorie, and I think once my Nan. The feathery Wilson family hair, despite the fact she and Lorie have a different last name now: Sussek.

But Greg and I both inherited darker hair from our dads, or at least, that's what I assume since I never met mine. Greg steps down a little less enthusiastically. He's typing on his phone without really looking up to even notice that I'm in his house, and because of that, he moves pretty slowly.

"Were you excited to meet me too?" Selina asks, stepping away now to watch my face for an expression.

"Yeah," I say, forcing a smile. How do I tell her that I didn't even know she existed? I don't, that's how. Sometimes it's nicer to lie to people.

Greg finally looks up from his phone for a moment when he reaches the first floor and extends his hand out to me. "Nice to meet you, or I guess, see you again," he says.

It's a regular Tuesday during the summer and he looks like he could be going to a modeling shoot at the beach, with a crisp white polo and red swim trunks on, his hair styled up at the top, and sunglasses resting just past his forehead. It would be sweet if they had a pool here, but I doubt Violet Hill Farm has one so I guess he's on his way out soon. The thought makes me feel some relief that I won't have to make small talk with Greg for too much longer. Or maybe this is just how people who live in Riverside dress.

"So Mom," he starts, turning his body to Lorie, but keeping his eyes fixed on his phone, "Taylor and Layla are outside. We're going to the pool."

"You have your phone?"

"Yeah, it's literally in my hand."

"OK, have fun and be safe. Tell the girls I say hello."

"Will do, bye Mom, bye guys," Greg says sort of absent-mindedly as he slides past me and out the door.

Lorie turns back to me once he's out the door. "He's very sweet, he just takes some time to warm up."

Wes is sitting on one of the couches in the living room, watching SportsCenter on the TV above the fireplace, but he adds, "He'll have to, you boys will be sharing a room."

Lorie scrunches her nose. "Greg doesn't know that part yet. We will let him know when he gets home, so you won't have to be the one to tell him."

"Greg's going to be mad," Selina warns, sort of sing-song-y.

"Well, that's a future me problem. Want a tour of the rest of the place?" Lorie asks.

"I can take your backpack up to Greg's room," Selina offers.

"Good idea, Selina," Lorie says. "Why don't we start up there anyway?"

She starts up the stairs with Selina, carrying my bag on her back, following close behind. Upstairs there are four rooms: Lorie and Wes's room, one bathroom—the only one in the house Lorie tells me, and it sounds like something she's embarrassed about—, Selina's room, and Greg's room. All the rooms are neatly decorated in the most generic ways possible. The master bedroom is light green with white everything else, Selina's room is pink with girly stuff all over, and Greg's room is blue with some soccer and football decals still clinging to the wall.

Selina throws my bag onto a daybed in Greg's room, which is probably twice the size of my room at the trailer. It looks like this bed is where Greg sits and does homework because a desk is nearby and it's set up with pillows to look more like a couch. The pillows have musical titles and logos on them, including The Phantom of the Opera and Les Mis. Delta Area High School put on Les Mis when I was a freshman, so I recognize the picture of the sad little girl.

Then Selina shows off her room, explaining all the printed-out pictures she has Washi-taped on the wall. Pictures of friends, of the family on vacations, one of which includes Nan. "I miss her," she says, lingering a little at that picture.

I feel a bit territorial at the comment, but that's dumb. She wasn't just my Nan, though she was so important to me, that it feels like she should have been. I think maybe it's that, if I hadn't lied about feeling safe with Janette, I could have been in the picture too. I could have spent one long summer week in New York City, too.

"Why don't we show Ev the yard?" Lorie asks.

Selina claps at that and then takes my hand to lead me downstairs, out the living room door past Rufus the dog, and onto the patio. The patio is surrounded by an iron gate, which is lined with potted plants, I think herbs. I recognize the smell of mint from that one trailer back in Country Meadows that was surrounded by indestructible mint plants all of us would pick from in the summer. I guess that was sort of nice, but I never trusted it. It always had a rotten aftertaste, though Kyle never agreed with me.

At the back end of the patio is a little gate, which Selina opens, and immediately, Rufus rushes past us.

"Rufus, slow down! You can't run like that," Selina calls after him, but he's already running up ahead of her.

"Why can't he run like that?" I ask, hoping it's not because of some aggressive tendency I don't know about yet.

"He's an old man dog. He's like eleven years old and has bad hips. The doctor told us not to let him run too much and to take it easy on walks."

Lorie adds from behind us, "Sometimes he can't even handle a full walk. He will stop and then refuse to move."

"Yeah, so now I bring the wagon from when I was, like, three. Just in case we have to pull him back," Selina says, sort of laughing to herself.

I raise my brows at Lorie as if to ask, Really?

She nods before whispering, "We are hoping we have a few more years with him. He's such a huge part of our family."

I hate myself for feeling this, but I'm suddenly jealous of a dog. He probably has received more love and care in his eleven years than I have in all of my seventeen. And, again, he's a dog.

"Anyway," Lorie says brightly, "here it is: Violet Hill." She extends her arms out in front of her. It is basically a violet hill: a steep expanse of land, at least compared to what I'm used to, leading up to the cemetery in the back of the yard and spotted in little purple flowers. Directly behind the house to my left is a tiered hill full of plants in full bloom, and to my right, where the ground is flatter, are some plants that are surrounded by chicken wire.

I'm suddenly aware that Lorie is waiting for a response from me while Selina runs after Rufus, trying to wrangle him. "It's nice," I say.

She smiles still without speaking.

"Did you plant the violets?" I ask after a bit of awkward silence.

"No, it was the funniest thing. When we bought the property, none of the beds that we planted were in, and the yard was just overgrown with crabgrass and all kinds of weeds. So the first thing I did was pull the weeds, but every time I ripped something out, these little violets grew in their place. Even if we mow, the violets come back. I just love it. You wouldn't think that these delicate little flowers would be the strongest plants on the property, but they are. Even that tree back there is dying, but the violets keep growing."

"What's wrong with the tree?" I ask. It's a huge willow, like the one in Pocahontas. It looks like the sort of tree you'd climb and put treehouses in if you lived in a movie.

"It was struck by lightning, believe it or not. Before we moved in. If you go back there, you can see where it was hit, there's this big branch at the center that is basically just firewood now. We should really remove the whole tree, but I'm kind of waiting to see if it will make a recovery. Sometimes plants will do that, they'll come back to life when you least expect it."

"Uh-huh," I say blankly. Selina is about halfway up the hill and has finally managed to grab Rufus's collar and keep him in place. She's laughing and panting, like the dog, and he turns to lick her face with such strength that he pushes her down. She falls back, still laughing, while he licks her face.

"Another interesting tidbit about the property," Lorie continues, "is that area beyond the fence up there, right behind where Selina and Rufus are, that's called an easement. It's sort of like a no man's land. It's technically ours but it also belongs to the cemetery."

The outlines of tombstones signal the top of the hill, and between them and the fence is a thicket of what looks like weeds and bushes to me.

"It's super annoying," Lorie says, "because we need to keep that area clean, but we can't really use it for ourselves. It's also incredibly annoying that people go there to drink and leave their trash everywhere. We tried to plant some bushes there to deter them, but I think they won out. You can see there's one little rose growing off of that one. But mostly, the weeds and empty bottles have taken over and I don't really have the motivation to work too hard on it."

"The cemetery doesn't help?"

"Nope. It's not technically their property. But it also isn't fully ours. Easements are confusing."

Oh, the privilege of having to worry about things like easements. "Yeah," I say.

Rufus breaks free of Selina's hold and runs in circles around her as she laughs and calls for him to stop.

"Between us, I don't think Rufus will make it to next summer," Lorie whispers. "We're not supposed to let him jump and run around too much, but I figure... isn't it better to let him enjoy his time while he still has it?"

I shrug. "He seems fine."

"Yeah, now he does. He gets these spurts of energy, especially when guests come over, he gets so excited. Just wait until dinner time, he will be limping around and laying in his bed."

Selina is finally up and is bringing Rufus down, guiding him by the collar. Now that he's moving, I can already see a little limp in his gait.

Lorie nudges her shoulder against mine. "Why don't you go upstairs and rest a bit. There are towels in the upstairs hallway closet, you could get a shower if you want, sort of clean up."

Hint taken. I can't imagine what I must smell like to them with their clean, magazine-worthy home, and my dingy, cigarette-smoke-soaked clothes.

"Yeah, OK. Thanks."

I turn and head back into the house, where I can see Wes on the couch across from the TV, playing a video game. I check the screen: Red Dead Redemption 2. Good one.

"Love that game," I say as I pass.

"Yep," he replies distractedly.

I walk up the honey-colored wooden stairs and into Greg's room to my backpack for some clean clothes to put on after my shower.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It's a text from Kyle. Correction: It's the most recent of many texts from Kyle.

Kyle: Yo... why aren't you answering??? Are you at your aunts yet? (4:05pm)

I reply.

Everett: Just got the tour. It's like a magazine cut out over here. (4:06pm)

Kyle: Are you ok? (4:07pm)

I take a deep breath, but somehow it doesn't fill up my lungs.

Everett: Yeah. Everything's fine. I'll talk to you later. (4:07pm)

I slump onto the bed where I'm supposed to sleep, and without my permission, a tear rolls down my cheek.

I fucking hate that I'm crying. I honestly don't even know why I'm getting emotional, except that Kyle asked if I was OK. I hate when people ask me that. If you have to ask, I'm not OK, move on. Or maybe the weight of the day—this life-changing, shitty day—has finally hit me.

I catch my breath, grab my clothes, and hurry to the bathroom, forgetting a towel, of course. But it doesn't matter. Once I'm in the shower, my tears will mix with the water and no one will know I was upset. I don't want anyone to know. They'll only want to help, but right now, I want to do my best to forget all about Janette and Country Meadows and heroin and pills and trash.

Why couldn't we have a respawn option? If I could respawn, I'd get it right. And I'd remember to grab a towel.