We’re in the car. He’s driving too fast and talking too loudly. “Say something,” he commands. “Stay awake. Talk to me.”

Talk? It’s one thing I never learned how to do. Not in all of my therapy sessions or those brief meetings with my psychologist. I learned to color, paint, and channel my emotions into productive pursuits.

But converse?

Normal people could do that. I needed medication.

“Look at me.” Thorny takes one hand from the steering wheel and snaps his fingers—but the car starts to drift, forcing him to grab the wheel again. “Fuck.” He risks driving one-handed to flick the dials of the radio. Angry rock blares, but he doesn’t change the channel. “Stay awake!”

But maybe I don’t want to. This could all be a dream. I want it to be. A dreary, dizzying dream.

Because, otherwise, it hurts too much. Pain makes people make stupid mistakes. Like listen, sinking into the cadence of a voice hoarse with concern. A stupid person might believe it’s real this time…

“Maryanne! Open your eyes,” he snaps. “Do you hear me? You never can listen, can you? Fuck, why did you even want to come back? They gave you a choice. I know they did.”

They. My treatment team. And a choice they did give: stay there in fancy rehab until my birthday and interact with other damaged dolls my own age or be shipped away to a relative who never wanted me.

“You hate being here,” Thorny points out. “So why stay?”

My brain might be melting, dripping down my nose, but I know just what answers he’s come up with on his own. I wanted him to take me in, but why?

To ruin his marriage, of course.

To destroy his career.

To make him regret the day I was ever thrust into his life.

Or maybe it’s a lot simpler. And pathetic.

My laugh trickles out of me as my eyes drift shut. “I don’t hate you. All…all I wanted was you.”

“Look at me, Maryanne.”

My eyes snap open, but the world looks different. Too bright. Blinding. My eyelids flutter as Thorny stares down on me, haloed by white light. Am I dead?

No. Unless hell is a cacophony of voices.

“Can I get a heart rate?” someone demands.

“Send for an MRI and CT—but first, we need to stabilize her neck.”

Stabilize. The job of a hideous, orange object lowered over my torso. I shake my head, but someone grabs my shoulders, pinning me down to wrap that object around my throat.

“No!” I squirm, kicking, bucking. “Get off me!”

My neck. It’s around my neck. Tightening. Choking. Suffocating.

Tight like a blue necktie with orange swirls. The one me and Mama picked out for Father’s Day. He tied it to two more, but that was the one suspending him. Cutting off his windpipe.

The one that killed him.

“Get off me!” I don’t care who I grab with my nails or hit with my feet. I can’t let them choke me. I can’t.

“Maryanne!”

God, it’s his voice. Not again. So calm when all I want to do is scream. So gentle and deep—it’s all I can hear.

“Listen to me,” he commands. “I’ve got you. It’s all right. I’m here.”

The limb I’m attacking now grips me tight. A hand—his, holding me.

I know it’s a lie. I know.

But my traitorous ears ensure I take in every word.

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re safe…”