Even if all I want to do—all I feel I can do—is stay in bed, I haul myself out of my room. It’s been a quiet week at home, and I’m only now beginning to feel my new normal. I trudge past Roz’s bedroom, her door still shut. She’s sleeping the blissful sleep of the healthy who can row themselves exhausted under the hot sun. From the kitchen, I can see the lights gleaming outside in the Shed, where my parents are conferring in secret, most likely about today’s destruction for my life.

I know why I’m upright. The Basket of Doom draws me. There, I find a bombardment of texts from Aminta, Caresse, and Auntie Ruth. A week of silence from Josh.

“Viola,” Dad says, stepping into the kitchen, startling me.

Mom follows, shutting the door behind them. I lower my phone hastily, guiltily, even though this is within my sanctioned fifteen minutes of usage. Her eyes lock on me as if by the sheer power of her stare, she can stop me from disobeying their No-Josh Mandate. Honestly, that mom death stare could be another superpower for Persephone. I make a note to tell Josh, except would he even answer? (No.) Are we even working together? (Unclear.) Does he want to see me ever again? (Unlikely.)

“Have a seat, honey,” Mom says, gesturing to the breakfast nook.

Sitting across from me, Dad intones, “We need to talk about trust. You know how important trust is, between all of us.” He gestures first to himself and Mom, then his hand moves back and forth between them and me.

“And we know how developmentally appropriate it is for teens to test boundaries. But when you do, you erode our trust,” Mom says.

Trust, really? They want to start in on trust again?

I can’t take this, not anymore. I slide out of the breakfast nook and stand in front of the kitchen island, glowering at them. “Do you mean trust as in being consulted about all your grand plans for me? Trust that I can figure things out, too? Trust that I actually know how to research? Trust that I want to get better, too?”

I’ve become Roz, whose every utterance creates yet more havoc to deal with later. Being messy is liberating.

“Honey,” Dad says, back to his radio-talk-show soothing voice. “We think it’s better for you not to go outside for now. Let’s get your skin back under control, and then we’ll take stock.”

“You’re locking me up?” I ask.

“No, not that at all,” Mom says. “We’ve even remodeled—”

I won’t hear it; I can’t. I leave them, midplan.

“Viola!” Dad calls.

I ignore him for once. Out of habit, I touch my lariat, but it’s not there. My reminder to be fierce, to fight for truth, to speak for the powerless is gone.

Of course it is.

I’ve lost my boy. I’ve lost my life.

And now, I’ve lost the last best part of me.