Outside, Phoebe found a wooden bench swing that hadn’t been visible from her window. Green vines climbed up one side, wound around the beam, then went down the other, leaving a cool, shady place for her to ponder just how much her life sucked. There was even a cushion to protect her far-too-bare thighs from slivers. She set the swing in motion, then pulled her legs up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them and rested her chin on her knees.
Something wet dropped off her chin and rolled down her leg and across her bare foot. Was it raining? Only if blue sky and bright sun had totally changed their functions.
She touched her face and realized the drop had come from her eyes. Another drop followed, then another. She couldn’t be crying. She didn’t cry. Maybe she was overflowing? She wasn’
