Page 18

Slowly, I walk back to the bed and climb under the covers. I look at the tray of pancakes and bacon, but all I can think about is kiwi. I push the tray aside and pull the covers over my head.

You're losing it, Teagan. You need to get your shit together.

FOUR

They discharged me about an hour later, shortly after my mom arrived, and sent me home with a few extra EpiPens and instructions to call 911 if I have another attack.

"Don't forget you have a virtual appointment with Dr. Miller this afternoon at three," my mom tells me.

"After all of that?" I ask. "Can't I reschedule?"

"No, you can't reschedule, Teagan. It's an important part of your transition."

"Fine."

"Your dad and I have a dinner tonight—a work thing—so we won't be back until after midnight. And you should spend the rest of your time today applying for jobs."

"Yeah, okay."

"I have to go. But Teagan? Really…stay off social media. Stay away from anyone and anything involving that band."

"No problem."

"Text me if you need me and call the office line if there's an emergency. Remember, the doctor said no driving for anothertwenty-four hours. I can have some pizza delivered later if you want."

"I'll figure something out," I say, turning the corner into my room.

There's a yellow shirt draped across the back of my desk chair. On the front are the words'Everything is bigger in Texas!'under a woman with comically large tits.

I quickly duck back out of the room.

"Mom?" I call.

"Yeah?"

"Can you come here for a second?"

"What is it, Teagan?" she asks.

"I just want to know if that shirt on the back of my chair is yours or not. I've never seen it before."

She peeks around the corner and into the room. "On the chair?" she asks. "Teagan, there's no shirt on your chair. I really need to get to work—if you find something of mine, just set it in my bedroom, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," I tell her. And when I enter the room for the second time, there's no shirt.

I'm malfunctioning. I wonder if I can mention this to Dr. Miller without getting locked up again. It's probably best not to risk it.

I sit at my desk, create a new email address, and spend the next few hours applying for at least fifty different serving and assistant jobs in South Orange County, each online application more tedious than the last.

Then, with shaky hands, I type River and Hazel Pinault-Hollis into the browser. As the results populate, I assure myself that this is different than entertaining bloodsluts and conspiracy theories—this is just me, checking on people I care about and making sure they're okay. After all, the last time I saw them, they weren't okay; none of us were. I take a deep breath, then sort byrecent. Once I get past all the articles summarizing last night's interview, I get to news about their arrests and subsequent releases for cooperating with law enforcement. I read through the article, but it doesn't give much away. It does say that she and River both pled guilty to evading law enforcement, down from aiding and abetting, and are on house arrest.

I hit the back button and continue scrolling the search page, stopping on a YouTube video claiming they've caught River and Hazel on camera. In the still photo, the girls have brown hair; people in the comments argue over whether or not it's really them, but when I push play, the shorter girl looks up for just a second, and the camera captures her eyes, and I know—I knowit's her.

I'm familiar with those sad, blue eyes. I've seen them look exactly like that once before—it was at a Dallas hotel in a bloody men's restroom. Do they always look that way now?

I hope not.

The man films them sitting on a porch swing outside of a small bungalow converted into a duplex, attempting to lure them into engaging with him, but it doesn't work. The two of them get up and head inside, slamming the door behind them.