(Rike’s poems to Peyton) I’m worried about what I’m wearing. Which, all things considered, is the stupidest thing in the world to worry about. But it’s ten and Rike will be here soon, and I want to look cute. I’m in a wheelchair, and can’t remember who the hell I am and I’m rocking a cast on my leg and arm, and I’m more concerned about what an idiot boy who wants in my pants will think than where I fucking come from. “It’s official, Collins. You’re a fucking idiot,” I mutter, brushing a lock out of my eyes. I’ve put on makeup and my hair, though a bit scraggly, looks cute in its choppy piece around my face. For the first time in weeks, I feel vaguely human instead of like some desert island inhabitant. It probably won’t last long. I grab my notebook and the phone, and shove them into my purse, and a knock on the door has my heart jumping into my throat. I blink and it comes again. This time it’s the kick I need to push myself forward and swing the door open for Rike.
