I stayed away for twelve days.
The doctor told me the smoke had caused inflammation in my lungs, and the burn on my hand needed regular care. I followed his instructions because I had no desire to die for Graham's version of me.
My mother drove me to a small rented cottage on the marsh road. It belonged to a friend from her church. I used a prepaid phone and paid cash. I wore a scarf over my hair when I went into town, not because anyone would recognize me, but because I wanted to move through a grocery store without feeling like a photograph.
I didn't feel peaceful. I felt erased.
Every morning, I checked the memorial page. People wrote about the rent I had helped them pay, the meals I'd served at Harbor House, and the scholarship I had arranged for a young woman who wanted to become
