By the time I'm home, the storm has subsided and darkness has fallen over the quiet neighborhood like a wet blanket. I try lying low. The least thing I want is to anger my mother. She gets feisty when I disappear for hours without texting or letting her know I'm running late.

The wetness of the lawn coats my wobbly limp, and for a second, I think I might pull it off. If I let myself in by the kitchen door, perhaps I can make it to my bedroom for a quick shower before facing the Kraken. She might even buy that I've been here the whole time, napping after school.

Mom mustn't see me in my drenched, dirty dress. She can't witness how my muddy hair sticks to my face like a second furry skin. I'm sure she'll freak and think her daughter is a poltergeist in the making.

As I make my way into the kitchen, the wooden staircase creaks under my weight. Damn you planks, I'm fat, I get it now. Please don't rat me out. My gaze fixates on the back doorknob as I thrust a shaking hand to grab it. My fingers hold on to it for dear life. I'm frozen, the iced kiss from the deluge working its way underneath my skin into my heavy bones. I need that hot shower like a heart needs a beat. I try gyrating the knob with little ruckus, and I'm almost done opening the door that oversees the small corridor prior to the pantry when noises come barging in. My stomach flip-flops, and my breathing shallows. It's her. She's in there. Like a bloodhound, she's sniffed my arrival, and I'm doomed.

With slumped shoulders, I face my impending demise. The second our eyes meet, I know I'm in for big trouble. Mom looks exhausted, like more tired than usual, kind of hard-and- crumpling-at-the-edges tired. It saddens me to see her like this, knowing I must be, if not a hundred percent guilty of such a devastating state, close enough.

She looks so darn pissed off too, I'm hitting myself, because I knew this scenario would likely happen. She thumps around the room, opening and shutting cupboard doors, picking up saucepans and random pots to bang them down a second later.

My siblings are nowhere to be seen, and I'm grateful for it. They get intense whenever they stumble their tiny, energetic feet upon my messes.

A loud snort rises above the clattering, ear splitting anger concert. If I know Mom like I think I know Mom, I'm in deep shit. I'm aware of how I look and she is too. She's scanned my drenched attire from tip to toes. She's smelled the foul stench in my lake-reeking, filthy dress. Her eagle vision notices how I'm clutching my stupid boot like a fucking see-Mom-I'm-not-dead trophy.

I see my face reflected in the metallic extractor above the stove. I watch how blood drains from my flustered, chubby cheeks at the idea she might have developed the ability to read my mind. She can't know I tried to—wait. No. I didn't try to—did I?

"Did you try to kill yourself, Dawn? Were you that stupid?" The pots crackle with each thud. They too are not pleased.

The wooden floor squeaks under my limping weight, because yes, I've walked all the way from Elsie lake to my home wearing only one boot. And yes, I have just realized how screwed up that is. How? Because Mom won't stop staring at her broken daughter.

"Dawn, where the fuck have you been? I was worried sick! What kind of teenager forgets her phone at home?"

"Mom ..."

"All teenagers I see at Providence Hospital live glued to that thing, and the single one that doesn't is my daughter. What are the odds, huh?" She won't listen to me or even notice Tommy and Bree appearing subtly in the kitchen. The first looking rather puzzled—because he never hears Mom yell—and the second holding a half-combed dolly. A clear sign she's heard it all and stopped what she was doing to eavesdrop shamelessly.

"Mom ..." I make faces in hopes she'll read the warning expression coming from them. It's all useless. She's blinded by molten fury.

"Don't you Mom me, missy. You are in deep shit here."

There goes nothing.

"Shit!" says Tommy and starts running around with his chubby arms wobbling in delight.

Mom yelps and stammers, "How long have you been eavesdropping?" Giggles explode everywhere, then a new song plays.

"Mommy said shit!" singsongs Birdie with her fingers gripping the counter, eyes starving with curiosity and ears sprung high.

Parading next to her, Tommy chants, "Mommy said shit! Mommy said shit!" causing Clover to bark.

Mom is livid. Distracted by the ruckus and in order to avoid stepping on our dog's tail, she stumbles backward, hitting her elbow hard against the sink. A new round of high-pitched curses followed by "Mommy said fuck! Mommy said fuck!". She staggers toward the fridge and slams the door shut because there's nothing she can use for dinner, and her eldest daughter has turned to the dark side, and my brother and sister have mouths like fishwives. And what did she do to deserve this?

It's all too loud. From the screeching noise my one and only boot makes against the wooden plank as I shift my weight in discomfort to the droplets raining down from my soiled back. I need some silence. I need a second to collect my rambling thoughts and plaster the I'm-okay-and-highly functional-not-at-all-effed-up stance. I could even sprinkle it with a confident, all-is-well-in-Dawnville look.

"I lost track of time studying in the library. Won't happen again, I swear," I tell my mother with a reassuring hug. When she pulls away, Mom plucks at my soaked dress with a grimace. "And so sorry for wetting the floor ... Got caught up in this crazy storm on my way back. I'll clean after myself, Mom."

Mom snorts, but her arms tighten around my frame. "Where's your bike?"

"I left it at school. Thought it'd be dangerous to ride it under the storm." I earn a small giggle in return. When I think I'm out of the woods, I hear my siblings gossiping about my circus-freak-look and my hopes thunk. They giggle and stare at my dark brown—formerly white—sock in pure amazement. It's as if they'd seen a monster, only cooler because they can tell by the way Mom sniffs that my poor footwear judgment has caused quite a commotion.

"Dawn is only wearing one boot, Mommy." Bree chuckles and bats her lashes to earn redemption. That devil.

"Yes, dear, she is." Mom cuddles her with her cussing forgotten.

"Is your elbow okay?" Tommy asks, also seeking forgiveness as he places soft, wet kisses on her wounded arm.

"Yes, sweetie, I'm all right. Now, go finish your homework and wash your hands afterward. We are ordering pizza tonight." Her words work like a charm, and off they leap, squealing in utter glee.

It's so easy to make them happy. So nice to watch them live by the ticking of every second, carefree and hopeful. New to life and its curveballs. I wish I could turn back time. Shrink, sow me back together. If I was smaller, then I would need less thread, right?—and hop right behind them.

The house falls silent, and despite all my efforts, I let out a long sigh. Coating it, I reach to where Mom stands—a bit weepy—and nudge her. She smiles and nods. We've made amends.

"I'm going to take a shower, okay?" I try to lift the corners of my mouth so she'll see me smiling.

"Want me to wash your dress for tomorrow?" A truce, thanks, Mom.

"That'd be good, thanks." I give her my back and head upstairs so I don't have to lie to my mother anymore. So my mask won't fall from my face. So the shards won't splinter the polished planks—her pride and joy.

I hurry even more.

As the water from the faucet fills my tub, I stand in front of my bathroom mirror and squint at myself through puffy eyes. I want to see what River saw before everything went to hell. I should be able to look at my reflection for longer than two seconds, right? Wrong, I can't stand the thought of it.

After a long, steamy shower, my wired muscles relax and weariness sinks in. The wind whirls and clatters outside my window. Guess it's taking away those judgmental clouds that were whispering obscenities under their cottony breath, watching my walk of shame back home.

Clover scratches my door, wanting in. I open it without making a sound, not wanting Mom to know I'm in my pj's. I know she will check on me in no time, so when her footsteps patter up the stairs, I feign sleep. Why? Because I'm a little, ugly yarn of messy threads, coming apart at the seams as my life unfolds without mercy. As my heart beats its erratic beats, with Dad no longer around for bike rides, chafed elbows, and endless laughter. Where is he now? He hasn't spoken to me in hours, and when that happens it's like an invisible hand is crushing my larynx—asphyxiating and terrifying.

"I'm right here, baby bee." His comforting voice brings a fresh stream of tears that glide their way down my cheeks. I hiccup and cover my mouth so Mom won't hear me. The last thing she needs tonight is to worry even more.

Hi, Daddy. Is it okay if I hug my pillow and pretend it's your chest?

"Remember how I used to count for you to fall asleep?" His soft chuckles reverberate in the emptiness of my room.

My things are still in boxes. Should I unpack my previous memories of a life before the big suck? Should I try to make it into this new one?

"You would get upset if I counted sheep," he carries on. "You only wanted me to count numbers. Do you remember that, Dawn?"

Sure do, Daddy. I hiccup my answer, but he won't notice. Part of me knows why he never seems aware of certain things. That this might all be a product of my subconscious aches more than the awareness he won't notice what I don't want him to.

"I can count as many as you need, baby bee. For you, I'll count forever," he whispers.

Forever. Only not. Your forever is my never again, Daddy.

I'd love that.

When he reaches one thousand three hundred and ninety-two, I drift away.

It's three a.m. Saturday. I wait for Dad to say something, but he is silent, so I turn over and count myself back to sleep.

I wake up and it's almost eight a.m. The mourning dove is back. She's perched on a telephone wire, her tiny round eyes foraging for seeds on the ground. Behind her, the sun arcs over the sky. Clover barks outside. Somewhere downstairs a door opens and closes. I lie in bed and pretend I'm a ghost and no one can see me. Not even the dove who takes off with a sharp, bullet straight flight. I don't feel like getting up and joining the world.

Bree's squeal precedes her tapping feet up the stairs, with Tommy's boyish thumping footsteps behind her. They argue about a fire truck, a soldier and a lost teddy bear. The sun tries to fight its way into the room, through my swaying curtains. I stand up, grab the metal lift and close the damn thing.

There's still water from the rain on the stool. The sun isn't strong enough to dry it. Just as I'm not strong enough to dry my tears that are here again, back to haunt me. I don't wipe them away, that's what the pillow is for.

When Mom opens the door calling my name, the smell of coffee and toast barges in with her.

I flatten my body so she can't see me. She leaves my room, probably thinking I've gone out for a walk, or to buy orange juice. I know she'll be taking Tommy and Bree to a family day run by the school and fetch my bike while she's at it. So I can lie here for the entire day. I will sleep and get up only to pee and then crawl back into my pothole. I will slow down my breathing until it is barely audible. I will hibernate here, come out in spring with the flowering buds and my memory of yesterday gone. River's voice erased. His torn eyes faded from recollection.

"What if you don't come out at all, Dawn?" my blanket whispers as I wrap tight, as hours fade along with my

I blink and it's seven p.m. Mom and Tommy burst into my room.

"What's up, Dawn?" Mom says with a frown.

"Yeah, what's up?" says Tommy, darting around Mom.

"I'm sick," I roll over, burying my face into my damp pillow.

"What kind of sick?" Mom hurries to press her wrist to my temple.

"Yeah, what kind of sick?" parrots Tommy while peeking inside my boxes.

The kind where you think you tried to kill yourself by drowning because you are disassembling. Threads going out of you in all directions. Tangled and still soaked with stagnant lake water.

The kind that caused a boy to go in and drag you to safety so you could cough, sit up and wish he hadn't seen you like that. Why? Because for some stupid, bizarre reason, it seems this stranger means more to you than half the planet's population.

The kind where you've ruined all possibility of making friends with him because you drew him away. Shunned him with your weird ways and crazy, plump wetness and your messedupness is poisoning the earth. It doesn't matter because one day the sun will swallow everything, my pain, my shame, my unravelling threads, and none of this will matter anymore.

"Cramps," I say. "I guess the cold from yesterday did its number on me."

Tommy looks confused. Mom looks sympathetic. Woman to woman, she knows how terrible those can be.

"Maybe you have a lot of poop inside," says Tommy. "I get cramps sometimes when I need to poop."

I look at my baby brother. "Yeah. Maybe Tommy. You know what? I think you are right, little man. There is a whole lot of shit inside me." His loud laughter fills the rooms, and I smile a little. Have I ever sworn in front of him?

"Dawn!" says Mom, but she is also grinning.

"I love you, Dawn," he says, his breath warm in my ear. "Get better soon." He kisses me, then rushes out calling Bree names.

Mom brushes her long fingers against my matted hair. "Want some ibuprofen?"

"No, I'm good."

I want to nuzzle her 'mom scent', hide under her wings and disappear. I want to tell her I need her. I want to confess about my talks with Dad and how some other things in the world talk to me too. I want her to rescue me from this starving void inside me.

I do none of that.

She waits for me to say something, but my voice grabs at my raspy throat and refuses to surface.

"Okay then." She leaves and I wish she'd stayed.

I dig my nails into my palms and sink back into bed, pain laced with my wrinkled sheets.

I'm alone again, except for Mom's coconut shampoo washing over my face, and the imprint of Tommy's wet kiss on my cheek.