Caleb was buried on a Tuesday.
That offended me.
Tuesdays were ordinary. They belonged to unfinished homework, reheated dinners, and complaints about how far away Friday felt.
People should not be buried on Tuesdays.
Caleb should not have been buried at all.
Mom stood behind me in my bedroom, fastening the top button of my black dress because lifting both arms pulled painfully against my ribs.
The bruising across my chest had changed from purple to a sick yellow-green. Four stitches disappeared beneath the curls near my temple. A brace held my right knee straight enough to make every step awkward.
The hospital had offered me crutches.
I had refused them.
Mom brought them home anyway.
They leaned against the wall beside my closet, silently judging me.
“You need to sit down,” she
