I cross that one out too.
My family and friends fill my refrigerator with casseroles.
Dad shows up after lunch.
“You should come home,” he says. “Your mother doesn’t think you should be alone.”
I agree, not because of my mother but because my place no longer feels right to me.
I’ll renovate it. Redesign it from the ground up.
I move back into my old room.
Zach patrols. He sleeps at the foot of my bed. He sits up when an owl hoots. He growls at the shadows on the blinds. When I take him outside, he heels tighter than he ever has.
Dogs know.
Back to Boulder. More questioning.
“Did you aim to kill?”
My mouth opens and shuts.
Yes?
No?
Yes. I aimed to stop.
Stopping is death when a man is about to kill your sister.
Sleep again. A dream where the gunshot is a starting pistol and I’m supposed to run, but my legs fill with cement. A dream where the gunshot is a door slamming and Angie is on the other side and I can’t find the handle. A dream where the gunshot is a metronome and I keep missing the beat.
When I wake, Zach’s paw is on my wrist. His eyes tell me he’s still here. I rub his ears until my heart drops back into its cavity.
The foundation emails pile.
I head to the office.
Brad texts me while I’m on the way.
Turn around. If you don’t, I’ll call your mother.
He’s playing hardball.
I text back a middle finger emoji.
Night again. The nightmares.
The gun.
The blood.
Zach drops a ball in my lap. I throw it down the hall. He thunders after it. He brings it back and nudges my hand until I throw again.
Day whatever. Mom shows up with clean sheets. She changes my bed like I’m six. I let her.
I lie on top of the covers and stare at the ceiling and recite the counties of Colorado because that’s what Coach made us do on long bus rides when we were fourteen. I get to Gunnison and stall out.
