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I lay in bed and cried, shaking and shivering as a winter blast battered the thin motel-room window.

I’d been dreaming. It had started as the most perfect dream.

I’d woken in Isabella and Colt’s beach house, the kids bouncing on my bed, telling me to get up and come for a swim.

They’d be leaving later that day, with a car taking me back to New York City.

Isabella appeared in the doorway, shooing the kids out and asking whether I’d have breakfast with her so we could discuss next year.

She also wanted to chat about her new show and the possibility of me looking over scripts in case, you know, I ever wanted to try my hand at working in a writing room.

It was just the three of us in the house. Colt was gone, and I was glad of it. I couldn’t quite remember why, only that I was relieved he’d left for the West Coast already.

In the dream, I’d pushed back the covers, to be hit by the scent of mildew, which stopped me short. The beach-house sheets always smelled of fresh linen and coconut oil.

That’s when I woke in the motel room, and I’d scrambled out of bed, tripping, and fell face-first onto the carpet, into the stench of stale beer.

This wasn’t my room at the beach house.

This wasn’t my room at Juilliard.

This wasn’t my room at home.

It all rushed back as I struggled to my feet and found the bedroom lamp. I turned it on and looked around the cheap motel room. Then I crawled back into bed, sitting up, arms around my knees, and I started to cry.

It was November, and I should have been at Juilliard. I’d planned to go back. Well, more like Mom planned to make sure I went back. Then we got a letter suggesting I might want to take a term off to rest.

Rest? No. The letter contained enough vague “suggestions” that it was clear they didn’t want me back.

My notoriety would be too distracting for the other students.

Mom was furious. I told myself I didn’t disagree with the school – I’d hate to interfere with my fellow students’ studies – but really, I just appreciated the excuse to keep hiding at home.

The media had wandered off as the weather chilled.

We hadn’t exactly been under siege even before that.

Mom returned to teaching in September, and when we wanted to go out, we’d just climb into the car in the garage and back out with Mom honking the whole way.

Reporters would take pictures and shout questions, but we learned to deal with it, much the way Floridians learn to deal with alligators in their yards.

Then they were gone, and surely that meant life would get back to normal.

Except, I wasn’t sure what “normal” was anymore.

I was taking online classes – musical and academic – but I didn’t dare enroll in college.

I knew better than to try getting a job.

The few local friends who stayed in touch had returned to college themselves.

With the media gone, the gate to freedom was finally wide open… and I had nowhere to go.

Then came the fight. Mom wanted me to apply for winter term at a local college. I wasn’t ready, and the harder she pushed, the more I panicked until I told her everything.

I told her about the forum comments. I told her about the online photos.

I told her how many times I’d changed emails and the ugly things that I received each time someone tracked down my new address.

I told her about the voicemail messages and the texts until I finally had to tell my friends to only call our landline.

I spewed forth all the ugliness I’d kept inside, and Mom…

Something in her shattered, and I had to watch my mother sobbing and shaking and blaming herself.

Once, after Dad died, I saw Mom break down when she thought I was in bed.

That was the worst thing I’d ever witnessed. Until this. And this was my fault.

I’d gone that night, leaving a note on the table that told her none of this was her fault. Told her I just needed to get away for a few days. I’d be fine. I had money for a hotel room, and I was almost nineteen. I could handle this.

I’d wanted to give her a break. I’d walked a few blocks, called a cab and directed the driver to a decent chain hotel, only to discover they required a credit card and ID showing I was over twenty-one. After two more hotels, someone took pity on me and suggested this cheap motel off the highway.

As I cried, an inner voice called me a spoiled brat. I only needed to glance out the window to see cars dotting the parking lot. People stayed in places like this all the time, and if my family could afford better, that was no accomplishment of mine.

But I thought of where I’d spent the summer, and I thought of my room at Juilliard, and I realized how much I ’d lost. I wanted to scream that it wasn’t fair, that I didn’t deserve this. I wanted to cocoon myself in self-pity and–

A bell clanged in my room. I sat there, eyes round, as the sound continued, a reverberating clang-clang-clang .

“Goddamn it,” a man’s voice said in the next room. “Is that the fire alarm?”

Fire alarm? My head jerked up. That was what I was hearing, an old-fashioned fire bell.

It was almost certainly a false alarm. I’d been in hotels when the alarm went off, and while Mom insisted on leaving, most people didn’t bother.

“Is that smoke?” the man’s voice came again.

A woman responded, telling him to get his ass out of bed. I inhaled and caught the faintest whiff of smoke.

The motel was on fire. Really on fire.

I scrambled up. I’d gone to bed in a nightshirt, and it covered me well enough. I just needed my jacket. I spun around, searching for my coat, as the alarm clanged.

Well, you’ll be warm soon enough, Lucy, if you don’t get out of here.

I gave up, grabbed my purse and my cell phone and ran to the door. With trembling fingers, I unfastened the keychain, threw open the door and–

“Smile for the camera, Lucy,” a voice said, and a camera bulb flashed.