Grace
How I manage to cut vegetables without slicing straight through my finger feels like a minor miracle. My nerves have been shot ever since Mom and I got back from town around noon. I’d been hoping to corner Dawson the second we walked through the door—fill him in before my thoughts could spiral any further—but he wasn’t there.
Dad said Dawson had gone into town about an hour ago, and we must have just barely missed one another. And now it’s evening, dinner is nearly ready, and he still hasn’t come back.
I thought about texting him. Typed it out. Deleted it.
This isn’t a conversation meant for a phone screen. I need to see his face when I say it. Need to know what he’s thinking before he has time to filter it.
Maria’s voice won’t leave me alone.
It loops through my head, every wo
