I hate the bike more than I hate Logan. It represents how much my life has changed over the last few months—falling apart and barely able to hold up my weight. I wouldn’t even ride the damn thing except it takes about twenty extra minutes on foot to get home, and that would make me late to therapy/support/whatever you want to call it group. The only other option is to ride the bus, which is never going to happen. I could catch a ride with one of my friends, but they all have soccer practice right now. Besides, that might lead to questions they wouldn’t want to hear the answers to.

I push the bike out of the trees and onto the dirt path, feeling lonelier than I ever have in my entire life.

I make it home with time to spare, dripping in sweat.

“Grey, come play basketball with me!” my eleven-year-old sister Mia shouts as I pedal up the driveway.

“I wish I could, but I have to go somewhere,” I say as I jump off the bike and wheel it up to the garage.

She frowns as she dribbles the ball. “You’re always too busy.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” I prop the bike against the garage, feeling bad that I’ve been such a terrible brother lately. I’ve just been too busy trying to keep what’s left of the family together. “How about I set a couple of hours aside this Saturday for just you and me? We can do anything you want.”

Her eyes glint with hope. “Even if it’s going out for ice cream?”

“If that’s what you want to do.” I just hope I can scrounge up enough change for it.

She frowns again. “But we can’t afford stuff like that anymore. We can barely even afford food.”

“You shouldn’t be worrying about money, Mia. You’re just a kid.”

“Everyone else is always worried,” she mutters. “I even heard Mom talking to Aunt May about how we’re going to end up living on the streets. Is that true? Are we going to be homeless?”

Seeing her worry like this breaks my heart.

“No, we’re not going to end up homeless,” I say, though sometimes I worry about that myself. “Mom just says things sometimes when she gets really stressed.”

“But we’re poor. I know we are. And don’t people who are poor end up homeless?”

“Just because we don’t have as much money as we used to, it doesn’t mean we’re going to be homeless.” I take the ball from her and shoot a one-handed basket. “Now start making a list of all the things you want to do on Saturday, and we’ll make sure to do as much as we can.” That gets her to smile.

“Okay, but just a warning, it’s going to be super long with lots of crazy stuff,” she says as I jog up the stairs. “So be prepared.”

“I’ll make sure to be ready for all sorts of crazy stuff,” I promise her then open the door and step into the kitchen.

On the outside, the house still resembles the same home I grew up in: two stories with trees in the yard and a lawn I’m forced to mow. On the inside, it’s empty.

After my dad passed away four months ago from cancer, my mom has been selling off furniture, appliances we don’t need—pretty much anything she can until the house sells.

“We can’t afford it anymore,” she said to me the day a realtor showed up with a for sale sign.

“But this is dad’s house,” I snapped, angry that she was getting rid of the place that carried so many memories of him.

Tears welled in her eyes, and I instantly felt like the worst son who ever existed. “I know it is,” she whispered, “but, Grey, there’s not much else I can do. Your father and I . . . We didn’t plan for him to get sick and . . .” Tears streamed from her eyes as she stared at a framed picture of him on the wall. “I don’t know what else to do,” she repeated again, more to herself.

I dropped the subject after that, even though it kills me every time the realtor shows someone our house.

“You look tired,” my mom notes as she glances up from the stack of overdue bills on the kitchen table in front of her.

She’s the one who looks worn out with her eyes bloodshot, and she’s still wearing her pajamas. She used to be one of those moms who was always up and running before everyone else. Now she’s usually late for everything and doesn’t have time to clean up. But with everything she’s taken on, it’s not her fault, and she’s still a good mom.

“I stayed up late trying to catch up on assignments.” I set my torn backpack on the table covered with overdue bills. “Can you fix this?”

She picks it up and turns it over, examining the hole in the bottom. “I think I should be able to. What happened? Did you snag it on something?”

“No, it’s just old. I knew it was going to happen sooner or later.” I open the fridge and hold back a sigh at the lack of food inside.

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” she says. “I can buy you a new one if you want me to. I just got an extra couple of shifts at the diner and—”

“Mom, stop worrying. It’s not that big of a deal. It’s a backpack.” I open the cupboard and grab three packs of fruit snacks. My mom’s been bad about stocking the cupboards with food, partly because she’s distracted and partly because we’re low on cash. “I have to go to that thing again, but when I get back, could you drive me to Benny’s? He said to stop by today and fill out an application.” I begged him to let me apply because no one else in town would even consider hiring me after the shoplifting ordeal.

She presses her lips together, on the verge of crying. “I hate that they’re making you go to these sessions. It’s not fair, not after what you’ve been through.”

“We’ve all been through stuff,” I tell her. “I made the choice to do what I did. I’m just lucky the storeowner didn’t press charges. And I only have to go to them for a week more. I can make it one more week.”

She nods, dazing off, thinking about God knows what. It could be the bills, her nightshift at the diner she started working at after my dad died, her day job at the pharmacy, or her son who decided to steal a soda, a bag of chips, and a frozen package of steaks and got caught.

The owner agreed not to press charges, just as long as I attended this support group/therapy session. Since I live in such a small town, there aren’t any individual sessions, so I have to sit and listen to people who have gotten into trouble with drugs, stealing, vandalism—pretty much everything. I really do regret what I did. I was just really hungry and tired of eating fruit snacks and Top Ramen.

My mom removes her reading glasses and sets them down on the table. “Grey, I really don’t like the idea of you getting a job, especially when you’re already struggling in school.”

I glance down at Luna’s phone number on my hand. I felt like a dumbass when I had to write it down. I knew Luna was wondering why I didn’t just enter it into my phone. I didn’t lie to her about my friends breaking it. But the incident happened a couple of weeks ago, and right now, there’s no money to replace it, so I’ve been stuck using the house phone.

“We need the money.” I tear open a fruit snack bag, tip my head back, and empty the whole pouch into my mouth. “And besides, I found someone to tutor me, which by the way, I either need to borrow the car or need someone to give me a ride to the library later tonight.”

“Tutoring sounds expensive. Maybe I can help you.”

“I love you, Mom. I really do, but you’ve tried to help me with my homework before, and you always end up getting really pissed off when you can’t figure stuff out. Besides, the person who’s tutoring isn’t really a tutor. She’s just a . . .” I’m not sure what to call Luna. Up until the other day when I saw her steal from Benny’s store, we had barely spoken to each other, even if we have gone to the same school since kindergarten. We’re definitely not close, but at the same time, I feel like she might understand my situation, all things considered. “She’s just a friend, not an actual hired tutor.”