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And how much do I tell?
Everything could come
crashing to the ground.
It’s like trying to cross
a raging river on a rope
bridge—fairly stable until
you reach the middle,
and then it all starts
to sway, and you know
you shouldn’t look down.
But you can’t help yourself.
DARLA COMES INTO THE BATHROOM
She approaches slowly, warily,
as if she’s cornered a killer tiger
or something. I snort. “No worries.
One attack per day is my max.”
But her expression shows concern,
not fear, and I realize it’s my face
she’s worried about. That looks bad.
Maybe we should take you to the ER.
ER? They’ll want to know what
happened. Take a report. Send
it off to my caseworker. Bye-
bye, Darla and Phil. “No. I’m okay.”
That’s going to leave a nasty
scar, Summer. Unless … we
could try the Liquid Band-Aid
stuff. It stings like crazy, but …
“I can handle it.” I follow her
to the other bathroom, watch
