Alyssa blinks and rubs her eyes, then rolls over to look at the clock.

6:30 AM

Little bit late.

She crawls to the foot of her bed, climbing over the rail and lowering herself to the floor. Her butt—well, bottom, really, since she doesn’t have any glutes—serves as a single foot, which she ‘walks’ with by using her arms to pick herself up and pivot her body forward, inching along. It’s slower than walking, much slower, but a vast improvement over crawling or waddling on her hands.

She reaches her dresser and rifles through the drawers within her reach. It’s organized a bit upside-down, with shirts and tops in the bottom drawers; pants, socks, and other leg-centric items up above. Or at least, it had been; most of their clothes have been packed up, a few left out for today.

Alyssa picks out a nice blouse, a pink thing with some kind of abstract art printed in white. She grabs an old tee shirt, alongside a skirt, then shuffles over to the bathroom. The handle is a bit of a reach, but she manages to turn it and shuffle inside, setting her clothes down and closing the door behind her.

Her abdominal anatomy is still very much a work in progress; her lower vertebra have yet to fully ossify, and she has something of a pseudo-pelvis composed primarily of cartilage, grown enough to support her body weight and anchor her back and abdominal muscles, but lacking further structure. Where the hip joints would be she has pegs of bone and cartilage instead, coated in calloused skin. They work fine on linoleum, but the tile of the bathroom is too hard, and quite cold even through fabric.

Behind the bathroom door is a full length mirror. She’s been wearing oversized tees as pajamas, tying the extra length up around her bottom. She almost looks normal in it, which is nice to see, even if it’s not true.

Alyssa unties the knot in her shirt, closing her eyes as she pulls it off and tosses it aside. She stands there, unwilling to look, until she hears footsteps from her room. What she sees is…

Disappointing. Pronounced ribs, skin stretching around them as she breathes; a lower body that reminds her of her childhood dolls, their legs torn off.

She shakes her head, and looks again.

Pale, imperfect skin, but skin nonetheless, instead of a patchwork of skin and scar tissue. Flexing the right way lets her see her abs for the first time in a long while, and it feels… good. Progress, slow as it is, is still progress.

A thump on the door startles her.

“Are you done in there?” Her twin’s voice is a bit strained.

“Uh, shit, almost.”

She lays down the tee shirt and sets her lower body atop it, wrapping it around herself and tying it at her waist. Then she pulls the skirt on from above, cinching the elastic over the tee. With the blouse to finish it all off, she actually looks a bit… nice. Pretty, even.

Alyssa opens the door and shuffles out of the way, just in time for her twin to dart in, slamming the door in her haste, the shower running a moment later.

She shuffles over to her wheelchair, climbing up the leg rests and crawling into the seat. Her newest vertebrae aren’t yet up to the task of supporting her weight full time—not if she wants them to form properly—so the seat has pillows propped around her, distributing her weight. She hasn’t had the chair long enough to break in the extra padding, making the shoulder harness a bit tight, so she fiddles with it before strapping in.

Motors whine as she pivots the chair and slowly maneuvers it between their beds. It isn’t hard to drive, but it’s not something she’s used to, either. She reaches forward, manages to pluck her phone off the nightstand, and slips it into her skirt’s waistband.

There’s not much else to do except wait. Everything has been packed, and there’s no point in making her bed; even if she could, the hospital has to wash the linens anyway.

Feels like there’s… something I forgot.

She glances around, and that something catches her eye.

Right. The cord.

They haven’t been using it, not really. It’s been maintained, kept alive, just in case. Now Alyssa and her twin are… not quite independent, but not so reliant on each other.

She grabs the end, making contact with the fleshy valve, and starts peeling away its plastic sheathe. Despite its resemblance to an umbilical cord there’s nothing special about it, just two vessels encased in fatty connective tissues, letting it hibernate when disconnected. Her twin had grown it from scratch, so she won’t be able to just absorb it. Too much baggage to keep it, and while it could be repurposed, she’d need surgery to get it somewhere useful first. She can leave it here, but the hospital would destroy it, which feels wasteful. That leaves one option.

Down the hatch.

It’s not what she expected—about the texture of licorice, similar flavor to pork fat. Would’ve made decent jerky, but too late for that now.

There’s a few knocks on the main door, just as she takes a fourth bite.

“Sweeties? Are you two up? Can we come in?”

“Umph. Uh.” She swallows the inch or two of flesh whole, gagging a bit as it slides down her throat. “Sure, Mom, come on in.”

Alyssa seals the cord’s end so it won’t bleed everywhere and uses her power to make its blood congeal, then quickly rolls it up and tucks it behind her.

“Good morning,” Mom says as she comes through the door, Dad not far behind her.

Looking at her parents is—it’s still hard. Growing up, she’d realized that she hadn’t quite inherited their best traits, like her siblings had.

Mom is an inch or so above average height, slim and curvy. Fine, wavy black hair falls to her shoulders, framing her face, contrasting with her light skin.

Dad is reasonably tall, with broad shoulders and strong arms. His brown hair is thick and cut short.

Comparing herself to them, Alyssa feels like some wires had gotten crossed. Forget having an hourglass or even a pear shaped figure: she’s built like a washboard, with none of the tone. On top of that her lanky arms dangle from her shoulders, paired with stubby legs. Worst of all she’s stunted, a runt. Five feet had been a goal for her, one she’d only barely reached.

She’d tried to fix all that. Incremental changes, so no one would notice. Yet no matter how much she tried, how much she learned to do, it never stuck.

‘Course, much of that wasn’t really true anymore. Not for her. Five feet sounded pretty damn good compared to her two-foot-eight. Especially—

No.

She seizes her errant thoughts, forcing them to stop.

No shit-talking yourself. Not today. Today is a good day.

“Get ready all by yourself, sport?” Dad asks.

“Yep,” Alyssa answers, smiling.

“Sweetie, is Alys—is your sister in the bathroom?”

“She just hopped in the shower. And, um, we woke up a biiiit late, so I was thinking I could get breakfast for the two of us, while you and Dad pack the van? If that’s okay?”

“I don’t know… are you sure?”

“Mom, I’ll be fine. I can do this.”

That last part is more for her sake. She’d seen herself as something abnormal for so long, something that had to be kept hidden.

Part of her hopes Mom will just say no; another has something to prove.

“Let’s go together; I need to sign some papers before we leave, anyway. Alright?”

Shit.

Probably the worst outcome, but it’s not like she can talk her way out of it.

Being out of her room, out in the halls… it’s weird. Really fuckin’ weird.

Mom and Dad had come out here a few days ago, bringing her wheelchair and a matching van with them. She’d driven the chair around a bit for practice, but she’d only gone to the day room at the end of the hall, barely a few rooms away.

Going this far brings… unpleasant memories. Getting carted off to surgeries, or worse. The feeling’s not so bad now, at least.

A few burbles announce her tiny stomach rousing from its nap, done with what she’d last delivered to it. She fishes out the rolled up cord, holds it in her fist, threads it out between her thumb, bites off a chunk, and starts chewing through it.

“Get yourself a snack, earlier?” Mom asks.

“Uh, yeah. Jerky.”

“Have enough to share?”

Alyssa nearly vomits then and there.

“I—um, noooooo. ‘Sides, it’s, uh, it’s that low sodium, heart healthy shit.”

Mom wrinkles her nose. Crisis averted.

Her wheelchair is kinda-sorta slow, to the point where Mom seemed to struggle to keep an exact pace with her at first. Gives her time to look around, figure things out. Like many government buildings, this one was built on the cheaper side, and from her room she could often hear things. Machines and equipment on quiet days, both mundane and medical. She passes a pair of vending machines responsible for the low hum she could make out at night, and glimpses a ventilator through a cracked-open door. Thankfully, it’s too early for many of the other, less pleasant sounds.

She passes by the rows of elevators, eying the staircase.

“Sweetie?” Mom calls from behind her.

Oh.

Shit.

“Uh, forgot, whoops,” she replies, turning around.

The elevator smells of citrus and ammonia, and the wheels of her chair make a sticky, tacky sound as she drives to the back of it.

Mom presses the second floor button, where the cafeteria is.

Alyssa feels her guts shift as the motors kick into action and the elevator descends. She grips the arms of her chair, her fingers digging in.

“Are you alright?” Mom asks. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” she lies; she hadn’t noticed any shivering.

“Just makin’ sure, sweetie.”

Her grip loosens, but she only lets go when they finally reach their destination.

The cafeteria isn’t far, through a big arch labeled ‘Food Court.’ Which was kinda overselling it, when all there is is the hospital kitchen and a chintzy donut shop. The latter’s all barred up, yet to open. No loss there; damn things could be fresh out of the oven and still be stale.

Or at least, that’s what Cindy had complained about, right? Or was it her twin?

…Whatever, it’s too early for her to remember.

Crossing under the arch marks a shift in her mood. The bold part of her had imagined driving—no, walking over—to the counter and placing her order, just like normal. That side of her had been embarrassed having to drag Mom with her, too.

Now that part of her feels awful small.

There’s a rough-faced man in a chef’s hat and matching whites behind the kitchen’s serving counter, wiping it down with a rag.

Alyssa drives up to the counter, right across from the chef.

“Howdy,” he says, looking her in the eye.

His expression seems equal parts tired and confused, for a split second. Kinda weird, really, for a guy working in a hospital to react so strangely to a girl in a wheel—

Oh. She realizes why, a lump forming in her throat.

It’s not the chair. It’s her. Her twin’s been down here at least once a day, seven days a week, for months.

“Uh, hi, um…. Uh, I was—um.”

“C’mon girl, spit it out.”

Shit.

“I—um, are you, uh, are you guys open?”

“Fixin’ for some breakfast?”

“Y-yeah.”

“We’re gettin’ the grills warmed up. How’s about you and yours find a table, and I’ll send one of the girls out to get your order when we’re ready?”

“I, uh, please. I mean yes. Sure. Thanks.”

She glimpses a shrug from the man as she spins her chair around, making a beeline for a table. And thank god, Mom had already sat down at one way in the back.

Her chair fits against the outside edge of the table, putting her right across from Mom, who’s seated on the back bench of the booth. She tries to relax, but she just can’t drop that awful feeling as it works its way down from her throat and into her gut.

“Alyssa, you’re shaking again.”

“What if he knows?” Alyssa whispers, leaning forward as best she can. “My—my sister comes here every day and—and we look completely identical and he’s never seen me before what if he realizes what if he knows—”

“Shh, sweetie, it’s fine.” Mom reaches her hands out, and Alyssa holds them. “He sees hundreds of people here every day. Even if he might’ve noticed, he probably thought ‘whatever’ and moved on already. Besides, all the nurses and doctors know, and nothing bad happened.”

“Mom, you don’t get it. They’re doctors and all that shit. If they tell anyone, I can sue them. He’s just—he’s just some guy. And if he can notice, other people will, too, and… and…”

“Identical twins are completely normal, and that’s all anyone will think you two are.”

“I—I don’t know if I am normal. I’m like, I’m just a chunk of her, like some kind of… deformed bud.”

“Don’t look at it that way. Remember all of my apple trees at home? They all started as branches from the same plant, and now they’re tall and healthy.”

“You can’t—you can’t take a cutting from a fucking person, Mom. We’re too weird. People are going to notice. I—I thought going home was going to be simple, but—”

“Sweetie, you need to chill out. Nobody’s gonna care, not here. This is your day, and I’m really proud of you. So right now you should just relax, and enjoy the moment.”

“Living in the moment is what got me here, Mom. And what about people who know me, but don’t know about me?”

“When we get home, we’ll figure something out, okay?”

“How? They’ll pick up things. Ask questions.”

“Just act like you belong. That’s the first step. Nobody’s going to bother snooping around if everything seems normal.”

Kinda shitty advice, if she’s honest with herself.

“Here,” Mom says, sliding a menu over towards her. “Why don’t you practice? I know you wanted to do this alone, so here’s your chance. I’m going to go out to the van and help pack. You have money, right?”

“Yep.”

Mom scoots herself out of the booth, and gives Alyssa a quick kiss on the forehead.

“Good luck, sweetie,” she says, and walks away.

Alyssa reaches into her purse, tucked into a bag hanging from the left armrest, digs her wallet out and places it on the table. She pulls out her credit card, laying it flat.

It has her full name printed on it: ALYSSA LEACH.

Probably won’t be an issue, now. Might be one later, though.

She skims over the breakfast side of the menu. Her twin always gets the same thing; for herself, she’s thinking of something light. As she’s reading, she can hear footsteps behind her.

Okay.

You can do this.

Alyssa stumbles out of the shower, almost tripping on the bathmat. She dries off hurriedly, dragging the towel across her body with rough, forceful motions. Not the most comfortable feeling—damn things are itchy enough as it is, but she’s already late. Her other half had gone to bed early and still overslept; as for herself, she’s not had a good night’s rest for a while. She doesn’t have the time for it.

She wraps the towel around her head and peeks through the door; nobody’s home.

Really fuckin’ late, then. Especially when the plan is to be home for dinner and that means driving all the way from Kansas fucking City.

Alyssa hurries over to the dressers, digging through what’s left. The blouse she’d planned on wearing is gone, and the suitcase with her shorts in it has disappeared. Which leaves her with—

A latch clicks open behind her.

“Naked!” she shouts.

The door shuts, followed by a muffled ‘whoops, sorry.’

Anyway, clothes. Clothes, clothes, clothes.

Alyssa throws each piece on as she pulls them out of the drawer: bra, panties, skinny jeans, socks. She tears the towel off her still-wet hair and tosses it onto the bed, then wriggles into a purple v-neck tee.

“Ready!” she calls out as she shoves her shoes on, already tied.

She doesn’t bother checking the door as it opens again. It’s obviously Dad; Mom would’ve slammed it shut earlier, or, hell, just burst in before she could utter a word.

“Where’s Mom and Alyssa? Are they in the car already?” she asks, fast enough that a few words nearly slur together.

Dad says something, but her focus is elsewhere. She’s gathered an armsful of clothes, her eyes darting around in search of a bag.

“What?”

“I said they’re getting breakfast.”

Her stomach rumbles. Because of course it would be now, of all times, to realize she’s fucking starving.

“Then… where’s all the suitcases?”

“Haven’t been packed yet. Just carried them out to the curb.”

“Fuck fuck fuck. So late, so late, fuck.”

She spies a single suitcase—a pink one in the corner, backpack on top. Her suitcase.

She leaps over to it, pushes the backpack off, rips the zipper open and shoves the clothes inside, then slams it shut and forces her muscles to deliver the strength necessary to close it.

“Is that the last of it?”

“Uh…”

Alyssa gives the room one last sweep, peeking into drawers and behind furniture. Satisfied, she goes back to her things, swinging the backpack over her shoulders and pulling the suitcase behind her.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

It’s fortunate that the nursing-slash-rehab-slash-long-term-care wing of the hospital is its own building, situated near a main road to boot. What’s unfortunate is that her room is on the fifth floor above ground, and the elevators are pretty slow for new construction.

Not that she wants to use an elevator, anyway.

Alyssa skips down the stairs two at a time, suitcase banging on each step behind her. Which is kinda dangerous, given her gait, but whatever. She reaches the ground floor while her father is still a whole flight behind.

“C’mon Dad, hurry up!” she calls out.

That’s the problem with relying on Dad. He’s always, well, he’s not slow. He likes to take his time, and then cut corners to make the schedule work out. Probably not the best image for a carpenter-turned-architect. But hey, their house hasn’t fallen apart. Yet.

Of course, the staircase is in the back of the building. Because what crazy person walks when a rickety metal box could deliver them to their floor of choice.

She runs her free hand through her still-wet hair as she waits, transitioning the nervous action into something useful, combing her hair into place and securing it with a snap-clip. Thanks to her power her hair is not-quite-dead; tiny capillaries run up each strand so she can adjust melanin content on the fly. It’s kind of annoying, sometimes, to feel it, but there’s the additional upside of being not-bad at styling, even without a mirror.

She manages to stay still long enough for Dad to leave the stairwell, then takes off down the hall, suitcase wheels clicking on the tile. Something small and light smacks against her ankle with each step, as if whipping about. Her jeans are pretty old, the edges frayed; it’s probably a loose hem.

“Hey, Alyssa, wait!” Dad’s voice echoes through the empty hall to reach her, a few corners distant.

She considers slowing down; they’re already late, and it’s not like they would’ve gotten home in time under ideal circumstances, either.

But she has so much more work to do than she thought she would, and there’s not going to be much she can do on the road except read or write. The sooner she can sit down, crack her laptop open and start downloading papers, the better.

Arriving at the lobby she blows right past the reception desk, heading straight for the set of glass doors. She can hear Dad running behind her, now.

He enters the lobby just as she reaches the doors.

“Alyssa! Stop! Your—”

The doors shut behind her as she practically sprints outside, the cool air raising goosebumps on her damp skin. She makes for the van, bounding down the stairs.

Her foot snags on something mid-stride. Momentum carries her forward, stretching her leg out and spinning her around. She lands on her backpack with the telltale crunch of snapping plastic, the back of her skull leaving its own crack against the stone stairs.

Through stars she sees her right shoe dangling a few steps above her, a loose lace caught on the rusted railing. Her heart, already at a decent tempo, kicks it up a few notches.

“Shit,” she can hear Dad mutter as he jogs over. “Are you okay?”

There’s a growing lump on the back of her head, and a few bumps on her legs that will probably bruise. Compared to what she’s suffered before, it’s nothing.

“I’m fine,” Alyssa insists as she crawls up the staircase, freeing her shoe and slipping it back on.

Dad helps her stand, lifting her by the shoulders, turning his grip into a hug. She struggles against it, only one thing on her mind.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” he whispers. “What’s going on?”

“My—my laptop. It broke,” she stammers; the very thought making her tear up. So much work, all wrapped up in a stupid plastic thing.

Even with her still-weak physique and their significant size difference, Alyssa finds the leverage to get one shoulder free, slipping her backpack off and around.

He takes the bag away before she can open it, holding it out of her reach.

“Dad. I need that.” Her voice cracks, on the verge of sobbing. “Please.”

Dad pulls the laptop out. Its candyshell white casing has chunks missing, larger cracks running across it. Still, the screen glows as he opens it, displaying her log-in profile.

“See? Just a few scuffs,” he reassures her, then puts it away. “I’ll bring your bags to the van. Why don’t you go sit down?”

Alyssa sniffles a bit despite herself; she must look so pathetic, right now. It’s pretty obvious Dad means for her to get in the car so she goes and sits by the curb instead, away from the clustered suitcases.

She watches as he puts her things away, smoothing a few wrinkles from her jeans to keep her hands busy.

After finding spots for a few more bags Dad strolls over, sitting down next to Alyssa. She scoots away an inch or two, but it doesn’t amount to much with his height, and he easily reaches an arm around her shoulders.

“What’s wrong?”

Alyssa usually hates hugs from her parents. She hasn’t really grown at all in the past seven years, she’s just aged. And even though they’ve gotten older too, hugs still make her feel like a little kid. But right now… she’s cold, sore, and upset; he’s warm, and his jacket is soft.

“Nothing. I’ve got a lotta homework, okay?”

“I thought you’d be done with it by today.”

“I know, I thought so, too. It’s just, it’s not even October and we already have a research paper in this one class, and the first draft is due tomorrow. I can’t handle this shit.”

“Look, I know your mother and I haven’t been the best about this in the past, but you can always ask for help,” he says, squeezing her a bit. “And if we suck at it, there’s always the rest of the family. Sammy’s good at writing, I’m sure she’d love to help.”

“Dad, it’s not—the school shit isn’t the problem. It’s her. I can’t be her fucking nurse and take care of myself. I thought I could, but I can’t, and this is… it’s going to keep dragging on and on and on. And I—I can’t risk failing again, not in senior year. But I don’t know what to do.”

“Back up a bit. I thought she’s taking care of herself, now?”

“Dad, you haven’t seen her. Not like I have.”

“Alyssa, she’s looking great. She got dressed by herself. Hell, she can practically walk.”

Alyssa takes a long, deep breath.

“Say you’re adding onto a house. A whole new floor. What do you do if the foundation’s bad?”

“Jack it up, dig it all out and pour a new one?”

“Okay, but what if you find out the first floor’s rotting, the second one’s full of mold, and just about the only stable part is the roof?”

“If it’s that bad, is it really a good idea to bring her home?”

“Look Dad, I know bodies, not buildings. So maybe it’s not that bad. It’s just every time we try to make her more capable, shit happens and I end up doing more. Yeah, she can waddle around, but showers are too slippery for her. Baths are tricky because her insides are more filler than guts, so her buoyancy’s fucked. I’m worried when she starts solid food that she’ll get blockages or some other shit. So much could happen, and all I know is that every time my life seems like it’s on the up and up, shit comes crashing down pretty quick. She’s not going to be any different.”

“Alyssa, you don’t have to be alone in this. We’re all here for you. We’re probably going to get home pretty late, but tomorrow we can all sit down and figure out how we can help her, so you don’t have to. Is that cool with you?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Dad.”

“Great,” he says as he stands up, stretching out. “I’m gonna start packing, do you want your laptop?”

She does, but her stomach has been sending pulse after pulse into her nerves, whining like a fat kid whose mother won’t give her a second chocolate bar. Bad enough by itself, but it’s making it hard to quiet her emotions.

“Nah. Too distracted, and still kinda upset.”

“I know it’s hard, but today’s a big day. For you, and especially for her. Let’s try to make it a good one.”

Alyssa’s heart beats like a jackhammer, despite all her countermeasures. And as if the cardiac conniption wasn’t enough, her flesh-laden stomach has felt the need to contribute. She swallows against another rising tide of vomit, and decides to consider the upside: at least it’s working. All of this thanks to her poor, poor adrenal gland doing its damndest to shove her from a state of heightened nerves to an outright anxiety attack. And in complete fairness to the battered gland, she’s been sending mixed messages.

Nobody cares. They’re not staring. And if they did stare, they can’t know.

The worst part’s over now. She has a take-out box full of french toast in her wheelchair’s basket, and a fruit smoothie filling her cup holder. All she has to do is cross the lobby, and she’s free.

The totally empty lobby.

Except for the receptionist over at the desk.

Aaaand the homeless guy who snuck in while she was trying to not be seen by the receptionist.

In the corner of her eye she catches a security guard, meandering over to check out the hobo.

She takes a swig of her smoothie, deliberating.

Just go already.

Alyssa imagines shoving the joystick as far forward as she can, the wheelchair rocketing across the lobby, automatic doors just barely opening before she speeds through them.

None of that happens. The chair isn’t that fast to begin with, and even if it was, it cost like, four thousand bucks. Instead, she drives at a measured pace, the electric motor making its whiny little ‘whrrrrrr’ sound.

The receptionist barely acknowledges her, with a quick glance and a slight nod. The lobby’s other two occupants don’t notice at all.

She makes it through the doors and out into the cool morning air. It’s still dark, with the street bathed in soft sodium yellow, traffic sparse. The van sticks out among the few curbside cars, a big gray thing of a vehicle with an equally gray, if not quite as big, cargo carrier up on top. The plastic pod is split open like a clam, suitcases piled into it.

Her twin is sitting on the curb, her hair still damp, combed into their usual bob that just about covers her right eye. They’d coordinated their hair in advance, so Alyssa had gone for a left part, with the hair on that side swept behind her ear and the right swept over her forehead, held away from her face by a pink clip.

Her twin spots her first, hopping over and making a beeline for the breakfast box.

“Finally,” she blurts out as she tears it open, shoving a piece of french toast down her throat. 

Mom’s leaning into the van through its side door, finding a home for a pair of bags that didn’t make it into the carrier. Having found one, she turns around, sees Alyssa, and frowns.

“Are you sure that’s enough?” she asks, pointing at the smoothie. “Maybe you should have some toast, too.”

“It’s fine, Mom. ‘Sides, I had that snack earlier.”

Her mother shrugs, then looks up at Dad. “James? Is it going to work?”

“Just… about—” Dad grunts, and the carrier’s latches snap shut. “There.”

He hops down from the car, dusting off his hands.

“I hope you girls got everything you need, because that ain’t closing again.”

Alyssa runs through a quick mental list: phone, earbuds, and… well, she doesn’t really need anything more than that.

“I, uh, I think I have all my stuff. What about you?”

“Mmph,” her twin nods.

“Everyone pile in, then. We’ve got a long day ahead.”

Alyssa wheels herself around to the back, as her mother and twin walk over to the driver’s side and take their respective seats. Dad accompanies her, opening the door and unfolding the ramp.

Driving into the van is a little nerve-racking. The ramp wobbles a bit, and even though her head easily clears the ceiling she feels cramped, restrained. She gets a feel for things as Dad ties down her chair; there’s not much of a view in front, only the backs of seats, but at least she has the rear windows to herself. Still, between the small space and the harness she almost feels… trapped.

No, she repeats to herself. Today is a good day.

The van starts up with little fanfare just as Dad closes the passenger door, and they drive off. She feels an urge to look back, fueled by worry; instead, she looks at the road ahead. The road home.