There are little explosives hidden all around me and I don’t know where it’s safe to step. I’m afraid of triggering something. A picture, a trinket, someone else’s happiness. Everything feels dangerous. The closet is a huge paper bag, helping me not to hyperventilate. I’m trying to breathe slowly, in even, measured breaths. The portable phone sits in my lap, mocking me while I run through the short list of people I can’t talk to about how I’m feeling. Suddenly, it rings. I actually flinch. “You didn’t call, like you said you would,” Charlie says instead of hello. “Sorry,” I say, and smooth my hair off my forehead. The disappointment in his voice is slightly comforting. “Anyhow, I was going to call you later, after I finished this thing I’m doing.” “It’s past midnight, you know.” Uh-oh. How long have I been sitting in here? And if it’s really that late, my mom is going to freak out that I’m getting phone calls. “Hold on a second,” I whisper. “Okay,”
