He laughs, and I stare at the bits of sky bold enough to break through the dense, tangled weave of branches. I should have brought mints. My throat prickles with dryness, a strange, salt chemical taste that sucks the moisture out, leaving my tongue thick and chalky in my mouth.

The back of my neck tingles and I look around sharply.

“Something wrong?” Ry asks, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Do you smell something weird?” I don’t see anyone, but I can’t be this paranoid. There has to be a reason it smells like Sirus’s house did the day of the break-in.

“No, why?”

My phone rings before I can answer him. Mother on the caller ID. The ancient Egyptian in me wonders if the strange smell and fear are connected to my mother somehow, connected to the twisted memories I dream every night.

“My mom. Gotta answer.”

“No problem. I’ll go get my notebook and be right back.” He grabs our garbage and leaves. His limp has an odd grace to it, almost like a swagger without the arrogance. I love it—it’s enough of a break in his physical perfection to make him interesting where otherwise he’d be unreal.

Oh, floods, I am not watching him walk away.

I answer the phone with a distracted, “Hey.”

“Little Heart,” my mother says, and she sounds tired. Maybe that’s a normal mom thing, but Isis the Ever Energetic doesn’t do tired. Now I’m worried again. In her emails she said Nephthys has been staying with her around the clock. I wish I could be there, too. No, I don’t.

“What’s up? Are you okay?”

“I have not been well. But I’m feeling better. How are you?”

“Better is good. I’m fine. Busy.”

“That’s nice. Your work is going well? Your friends are kind?”

I’ve been trying to tell her more about my life in my emails. It feels . . . nice. Nice to be able to talk with her a little more. She never listened to me when I was at home, but she can’t very well ignore typed words she has to respond to. “Yeah, everything’s really good.”

“I am glad. I wanted to ask your opinion on colors for the baby’s room. You’re so much better with this than I am.”

I sit up straight. “Yeah, sure. What are you thinking?”

“I need something neutral, but I want it to be warm and welcoming. Maybe blue and yellow?”

I bite my lip, running through palettes in my head. “You don’t want to do a baby’s room in yellow—it’s not soothing enough. Brown and green will give you more options if it’s a girl and you want to add some pink accents. If you go with a spring green, it’s still a very warm color without the inherent energy of yellow.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.”

I smile. She really does value my opinion on this stuff, just like she told Michelle.

“Also, how many coats do you think we’ll need to cover up the black?”

“I would say—wait, the black? What room are you painting?” My heart skips erratically. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t.

“Your old room.”

“MY ROOM? You’re painting over my room for some stupid baby?”

“Isadora! I didn’t think you’d mind. I have always used this room for babies.”

“I spent months decorating! It’s MINE. Of course I mind! Do you even care that I’m gone? Obviously you don’t think of me at all! I knew Osiris didn’t, but at least you pretended to care.” I stand, livid, almost screaming into the phone. I know I’m not going back home, but she doesn’t know that. How dare she destroy my work, give my place in the family and my room to my replacement.

“That’s enough!” The whipcrack of her voice makes my temple throb even over the phone. “If I’d known you would be so selfish and immature about this, I wouldn’t have brought it up. I’m very disappointed in you. You know your room is temporary. It isn’t the room that will matter in the future, and I don’t see you putting time and care into that one.”

“My—Amun-Re, Mother. You really think it’s okay to destroy the one thing that was mine because I still have my tomb? You really can’t wait for me to die, can you? It’s amazing. It’s absolutely amazing that the goddess of motherhood can suck so bad at being a mother! Well, guess what? You can give both rooms to your new victim, because I am never coming home. Ever. EVER!” I scream the last word and throw my phone down, wishing she were here so I could hit her, physically hurt her to make her feel what I’m feeling, to finally show her what she does to me on the inside.

And then somehow my rage is leaking out my eyes and I sit back hard onto the roots, my tailbone stinging, and dig my knees into my eyeballs as I wrap my arms around my legs.

I hate my parents. I hate them. And I hate that I hate them, because it means I care. I wish I could feel the same way they obviously feel about me—I wish they were the nothing to me that I am to them.

Ry’s arm around my shoulder is surprising; I’m still not used to being touched, and it’s comforting. “Is your brother here?” he asks. “I thought I saw him.”

I shrug, not lifting up my head. “Maybe. He’s been paranoid lately. I can’t remember if I told him I’d be here tonight or not. I’ll text him and tell him I’m coming home now.”

“I have a better idea. Text him and tell him you’ll be home late. I know where we need to go.”