Uncle Eddy pauses, trying to catch his breath. After a minute he says, “Forgive me, Sophie.”

I know he means for taking a moment to rest, but I say, “For what? Stealing my mom?”

Geez, I sound so hateful, I hardly recognize my voice. Worse, his skin fades to a sickly gray shade, and his eyes close. I’m worried I’ve shocked him into having a stroke.

I wait for his eyes to open—wintergreen like my father’s—and I can see he’s okay before I rise. It was childish to think I could tell off him and my mom. Like it would make things better and make the past just go poof! As if. Then maybe we could all go back to our house for a family reunion and sweet tea on the porch. Just brilliant.

She left. What difference does it make that she’s back?

“I’m going to go—”

“Your mother wants to see you, Sophie.”

“Don’t call me that.” My words surprise us both.

“Sophie?” he asks. “What do you want me to call you?”

SophieTopperQuinnQ. For every name I have, there is someone who objects to it. I don’t even know what to call myself.

“Nothing. I don’t want you to call me anything.”

“O-kay . . .” He draws the word into two syllables, and I can tell he’s thinking I’m some screwed-up teenager hiding a drug addiction and hefting an attitude through a “difficult phase.”

Whatever. I sigh. “Someone’s waiting on me. I’ve got to go.”

“Wait! What should I tell your mom?”

His raised voice draws attention. Darlene watches from the front desk. A nurse from Don’s floor glances at us as she passes. People don’t need another reason to gossip about me.

“That’s up to you. Honestly, if she wants to see me, I’m sure she can figure out how to work a phone. If I remember right, she was a tramp, not stupid.”

For a moment, Uncle Eddy looks like he wants to slap me. I’m almost daring him to, so I can hit back, him being sick or not. I blame him. And her. Everything shitty about my life began the day they left.

Uncle Eddy’s lips narrow with righteous indignation.

Anger hums in his voice when he speaks, but the words come slowly, as if he’s a drill sergeant lashing a plebe. “You have a right to be mad, so I’ll let that go. Once. Your mom will be waiting for you at the Blue Dawn Café in Spring Lake tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred. Got that?”

I won’t feel guilty. Not because of this man. No way will I let him boss me around. My father is bad enough. I toss my bag over my shoulder, throwing as much disdain as I can into the look that I give him.

I shrug. “Doesn’t matter. I won’t be there.”

“Oh-nine-hundred!” he calls after me, but I’m gone, striding past Darlene and slamming through the door to the stairwell.

The better to hide until the trembling stops and I know I won’t lose it.

*   *   *

I’m too angry to stay at the hospital.

George doesn’t deserve to have me take my temper out on him, so I leave him a note in his room, telling him I don’t feel well. Then I drive out to Grave Woods, where some snow lingers, though most of it has seeped into the ground and disappeared. Any day now, my father will have his garden.

I have the camera, but I don’t take any pictures. Instead, when I arrive at the graves I lie on the ground, flat on my back between Josephine and Thomas, and stare up at an icicle hanging from a branch overhead. The ice sweats languid drops that trickle to the tip of the ice-stick where they dangle, suspended for one . . . two . . . three seconds before gravity takes over. I study each new drop, predicting how long it can delay the inevitable free fall.

One . . . two . . . three . . .

One . . . two—

I am bits of who everyone thinks I am. One . . . Blake’s Q. Two . . . Carey’s Quinn. Three . . . Sophie Jr., taking after her whore mom. Four . . . middle name Topper for Uncle Eddy the Honorable. Which piece is really me?

I’m plummeting and terrified of hitting rock bottom.

I want to be someone new.

Sophie Topper Quinn, no more.

*   *   *

I wake up because I’m shivering so hard, my bones might shatter.

Day has faded into evening, which means I’ve been in the woods for hours. A glance at my watch and I know Dad is going to freak because I’ve missed dinner. Panic drives me to my feet, but it takes forever to get back to the Jeep when I get lost in the dark.

I’m two hours late when I pull in to the driveway. It won’t matter that I’m always on time. People never see how good you are. Fuck up once, though, and it’s like you are wearing a neon sign.

My father’s heard my car. He marches out onto the porch, and he’s Lieutenant Colonel Cole Quinn marching on the enemy.

“Damn it, Quinn! Where the hell have you been?”

The heat from the car hasn’t thawed me. I’m hugging myself to get warm and my teeth chatter when I try to answer. “I—”

He waves his hand, brushing away my excuses. “I don’t want to hear it! You get your ass into the house. You’re the most damned irresponsible . . . I’ve had it with you, kid.”

He leaves me standing in the driveway with my mouth open. The door bangs shut behind him, and I can hear him crashing through the house, slamming doors as he goes. Yelling about what a fuck-up I am. How sad for him to get saddled with a daughter like me.

The unfairness of it slaps me in the face.