As we walk away from the house into the August morning it feels like we are passengers straggling out of the wreckage of a plane crash. We are weirdly giddy, not good company for anyone but ourselves—delirious, shattered, and still under the spell of the gallows humor we’ve become as dependent on as oxygen in the final weeks to stay sane. “It’s okay to leave her, right?” my dad asks. “I think so,” says Amelia. “I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”
This is how star and I are in moments where everyone else is normal.
