Sam
I don't remember walking to my car.
One second I'm standing in that hallway, the smell of motor oil and Clair's perfume—something floral, something that doesn't belong to the woman I grew up mourning—still clinging to the air around me, and the next I'm gripping a steering wheel so hard my knuckles ache, staring at a windshield I can't see through because my eyes won't stop blurring.
I don't drive toward home.
I don't even decide where I'm going. My hands just do it, turning the wheel down familiar streets, taking the long way, the way that doesn't pass the shop, the way that doesn't pass anywhere I might run into someone who wants to ask if I'm okay.
I am not okay.
I don't think I've ever been less okay in my entire life, and that's saying something, considering everything I've
