of my bed like they’re afraid to come too close.

“Do you remember what happened?” Mom asks.

I shake my head and regret it, because the room spins with it. I

remember sand and a whole lot more pain than I’ll ever admit to

willingly.

“It was so strange,” Layla says. “We were just talking-” She

pauses, like she’s not sure if she’s remembering right either. She

bites her lips before continuing, and I fidget because every part of

me is happy to see her. Every part. I remember the CPR on the beach

like a flash. Her angry face walking away from me. I rub the spot on

my chest where she punched me.

Now, sitting in the visitor’s chair, she plucks a daisy from the

bouquet on the table beside her. She twirls the yellow flower in her

hand and squeezes a petal between her fingers, like she’s trying to

get the sticky sweetness out of the flower before she plucks it. She

loves me.

“We were talking,” Maddy interrupts. She takes a seat at the very

corner of my bed. She stares at my feet sticking out from the

blankets. “Then we saw those storm clouds, and people just started

screaming and freaking out and running out of the water all at once.

You were holding this little girl who wouldn’t stop crying . Then you

gave her to me .” Her voice reaches a high pitch before she stops and

takes a deep breath.

Layla plucks another petal. It falls onto her lap. She’s wearing

white shorts and a blue T-shirt that says “LOLA STAR” in big yellow

letters. She loves me not .

“We were getting evacuated, and they couldn’t go after you,

because they had to get everyone else off the beach. And then we made

it to the boardwalk just as the wave crashed. It reached all the way

up to the boardwalk.”

“Yeah, Ruby’s roof came down a bit, but nothing major.”

“I remember spinning,” I say, with sudden unease in my gut.

“They said there was a whirlpool a few miles out. Some schooners

hit the bottom. They’ve been washing up for a few days.”

“Do you remember anything else?” my mom asks, brushing my hair

back. The gray overcast light makes the red of her hair look so much

brighter. Actually, everything looks brighter. The golden tan on

Layla’s skin, even the dull blond of Maddy’s pigtail braids shines. My

hearing isn’t as good as when I woke up on the shore, and I don’t know

if I was just imagining that stuff, but I swear I can hear the way my

mom’s heartbeat quickens and skips. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head. “I hate hospitals.” She hums something, which

is what she does when she’s distracted.

“You’re such a fast swimmer,” Layla says. She loves me. “You got

out so far before the first wave even hit. I’ve never seen you swim

like that.” She says the last bit like she’s really trying to remember

the last time she saw me swim, like she’s been missing something. I’m

missing a lot of somethings, and it’s making the back of my head

pulse. She loves me not.

“Th-then the next day there was no sign of a storm. I mean, it’s

been overcast, but the water is super still. Beach patrol’s been

searching the shore for days.”

“Whoa, wait. How many days has it been?” I ask.

“Three,” they say in unison.

Three days? I can’t even say it out loud.

“Alex and I found you this morning.” She loves me. She loves me

not.

I sit up and feel stronger right away, like lying down is the

problem.

They’re so quiet that I can’t stand it. “Guys, what? What’s wrong?

I’m alive. Happy news. What’s with the morbid?”

“It’s just that…you’re the only one we’ve found,” Layla says. Then

adds, “Alive.”

“Shit.”

She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me.

I jump when Mom goes, “Madison Shea! What are you doing?”

Maddy lets drop the corner of the covers she’s holding up. “Sorry,

I j-just…There’s stuff on your feet, Tristan.”

And there on the inside of my ankle is a thin residue of sand that

looks like it’s been mixed with glitter. That’s Coney Island sand for

you.

My mom forces a chuckle, the kind she reserves for PTA meetings

and community brunches. “The sooner we’re home, the faster you can

have a real good bath.”

“Mom, if I’m the only survivor so far, they’re not just going to

let me walk out of here. That nurse just went to get the doctor.” Not

that I want to stay here any longer. This is just like my mom, hating

hospitals so much that even when she sprained her ankle last December,

she just sat on the couch for two weeks rather than see a doctor. Two

amazing weeks for her, since Dad and I were her menservants.

The cute Asian nurse comes back in. “Hey,” I say instantly.

She loves me not.

She gives me that shy smile, then looks directly at my mother.

“Doctor Burke is taking off a cast, ma’am.”

“Maddy, will you tell my husband that we’ll only be a minute? Oh,

and will you take one of these bouquets? They’re just lovely. Pity we

can’t take them all.” She plucks a card off one and reads it out loud.

“‘Get well soon, XOXO. Luv, Amanda.’ Who’s Amanda?”

“I don’t remember,” I say. Sometimes my mom acts like she’s not

part of this universe, living always in her head. Maddy is still in

the room, and even though she looks away quickly, I don’t miss the

hurt on her face. She picks up the bouquet of daisies beside Layla and

walks out of the room like she can’t put enough distance between me

and her.

“What a strange girl,” Mom says before turning to me. “Your

clothes are in the bathroom.”

I don’t know what to say. This is insane? Can you get arrested for

leaving a hospital without a doctor’s approval? Is it like walking out

on a restaurant check? I hold up my wrists with all the tabs hooked to

them. “Um, hello?”

“Oh.” Nurse Christine grabs my wrist with her gentle fingers and

then pulls at the white tabs with one swift movement. It doesn’t

exactly hurt, but it’s like peeling off tape all at once.

“Tristan,” Mom says in her Did-you-hear-me-or-what? tone.

“Bathroom. Clothes. Now. Please.”

I stand too quickly before realizing there is no back to my

hospital gown. Not that my mother didn’t give birth to me, and not

that Layla hasn’t seen me in nothing but a banana hammock from the

swim team’s uniform, and one time the team decided it’d be a good idea

to skinny-dip for Valentine’s Day. But this is a tad invasive.

Layla and my mother giggle behind their hands while I try to hold

the back of my gown together and walk backward into the bathroom.

“You wouldn’t think it’s so funny after you’ve just escaped the

hands of death ,” I shout at them once I’ve closed the door. I sit on

the toilet to inspect my body for any more grime they missed. The sand

is mostly gone, but I wish I had a life-sized scratch post to rub my

entire body against until the itch goes away. I scratch at my chest

and wince at the burn. In the mirror I notice thin red scratches that

are still scabbing. What happened to me?

I put on my navy-blue canvas shorts and a white V-neck that’s

almost worn thin from salt water and detergent. I run the faucet and

splash cold water on my face. I could have died. I could have drowned.

I’ve been missing for three days, and I don’t remember any of it. I

want to throw up, but all I do is dry heave into the sink.

I rinse out my mouth, examine myself in the mirror. The skin on my

cheekbones and over my nose is slightly red and peeling. My lips are

dry and flaky. I have some bruises on my forearms and bumps on either