“Such a goddamn mess, all of this, all the time,” Mrs. Wilson muttered, coming closer. Sandy could see the old woman’s wiry bare feet, her toes painted a bright orange. She wondered for a second what it would feel like when Mrs. Wilson kicked her. She braced herself for it.

When the pain didn’t come, Sandy looked up. Mrs. Wilson was standing there in a teenager’s pink sweatsuit, her eyes shiny brown marbles in her bony old-lady face. She had a hand on her hip and a look of disgust on her face. “You hurt or something?” she shouted, like the problem was Sandy’s hearing. “One of these bastards do something to you?”

Sandy shook her head, but Mrs. Wilson looked up and down the walkway as if trying to find someone to blame. Then her eyes set on Sandy’s front door. She turned her orange-polished toes in the direction of the door, then padded down for closer inspection. She lifted her pointy chin to squint at the ugly yellow sticker, then poked her nose in close to the padlock that was bolting shut the door.

Mrs. Wilson marched back toward her own apartment, muttering more angrily as she disappeared inside. Sandy waited for her to slam the door. Instead, Mrs. Wilson reappeared, a crowbar gripped in her hand.

Hoisting it against her hip, Ms. Wilson headed to the apartment on the far side of hers. Every step looked like it might topple her skinny body. She rested the crowbar on the ground before pounding on her far neighbor’s door.

Two young guys lived there. Shady for sure, but not dealers, as far as Sandy knew. Otherwise, Jenna would have found her way over there a long time ago. Stolen electronics, maybe, or counterfeit something or other. From the constant stream of people in and out of their door, they were definitely selling something.

“Hey, I know you’re in there!” Mrs. Wilson shouted when they didn’t answer right away. She banged harder, this time with her whole forearm. “I just heard your TV through my wall! Open up the damn door!”

A second later, the one with the scruff of hair on his chin filled the entryway. He was wearing a 76ers jersey and a baseball cap backward over a tangled brown ponytail. There was a gold chain on his right wrist. The guy didn’t say anything, just stared at Mrs. Wilson like a startled elephant, not angry, only confused.

“Here.” She shoved the crowbar at him. He blinked down at it but didn’t take it. “Go on,” she scolded. “What are you waiting for?”

Finally, he reached forward. In his big fingers, the crowbar became a weightless matchstick. He stared down at it, surprised and even more confused.

“Now,” Mrs. Wilson said, “you take that and go open that door.”

“What?” His voice was nicer, more polite, than Sandy would have expected.

“You heard me. Go open that door for this girl.” Mrs. Wilson hooked a thumb toward Sandy’s apartment. “It’s locked.”

“What?” Now he sounded like a whiny teenager. “Why?”

“Because I said so,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “You boys are lucky someone hasn’t called the police on you. And someone still could.”

The guy heaved a loud sigh and lugged himself out of his apartment. As he headed for Sandy’s door, he tossed the crowbar higher in his huge hand. He paused at Sandy’s door to read the notice, turning back to look at Mrs. Wilson.

“Oh, please, don’t act like you care about the law.” She flapped a hand at him. “Just do it.”

He looked over his shoulder once more to see if anyone was watching—something he’d definitely done a hundred times before when breaking in elsewhere—then snapped the lock off in one easy movement. It fell to the ground with a thud. He walked back toward them, eyes on the ground. He rested the crowbar against the wall next to Mrs. Wilson and disappeared inside his apartment without saying another word.

Sandy pushed herself to her feet, heart pounding. She had to get in and out of that apartment now. Who knew what would happen when you broke open a lock like that? They arrested you, probably, and Sandy seriously did not fucking need that.

“Thank you,” she said to Mrs. Wilson, her voice still hoarse from crying.

Mrs. Wilson shook her head and stepped closer to Sandy, looking her hard in the eye. “You get in there and take what you need,” she said. “But then you go. Because you are the only person in this world who’s going to take care of you. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.”

Inside the apartment, Sandy moved fast. She grabbed a couple of the boxes they’d used to move in months earlier, then went around scooping up their personal crap that mattered: Jenna’s jewelry box, Sandy’s grandparents’ pictures, her school records. She opened and closed cabinets, eyes darting around for anything important. There wasn’t much. Their stuff that mattered barely filled a single box.

Sandy filled a second box with some basic kitchen crap: couple plates, some bowls, and a handful of silverware. She also grabbed the stuff Hannah had given her that night for safekeeping. She couldn’t imagine ever seeing Hannah again—she hoped to God not—but it felt wrong to leave it behind. Sandy couldn’t take much else. They’d just have to replace the rest of their cheap shit with new cheap shit. As it was, she didn’t know where the hell she was going to put these two boxes; it wasn’t like she could ride away with them on her bike.

They’d need some clothes, too, an outfit for each, and she’d have to go with spring because there wasn’t time to cover winter. It wasn’t until then that Sandy noticed Jenna’s coat hanging on the back of the door. It had been cold the night before last, frost on the grass in the morning. What if Jenna was outside somewhere? What if she’d frozen to death?

Sandy tried to shake off the thought as she went back to Jenna’s room for one last pass. Though she was trying not to hope that she’d find her money somewhere, she was still disappointed when she didn’t.

There was one last place Sandy could look, the place girls like Jenna always hid their secret stash. Sandy grabbed the mattress with two hands and pushed. She was almost glad when it pitched to the left and crashed against Jenna’s bureau, taking everything on top—cheap bottles of perfume and small glass tchotchkes—down with it.

When Sandy looked back, she couldn’t believe it, but there was something fucking there on the box spring. Not her money. She’d never be that lucky. It was a small black book. Sandy picked it up, bracing herself when she flipped it open. Sure enough, there were her mom’s bubbly girlie letters and a date on the first page: February 15, 1994. Shit.

Sandy tucked the two boxes under the building’s stairs in a dusty cobwebbed corner she was pretty sure no one would check. In her backpack, she’d shoved what was left of her cash—eighteen dollars now—Jenna’s journal, a couple clean pairs of underwear, two T-shirts, and her toothbrush. She didn’t know where the hell she was going to stay, but it wasn’t here, that was for sure.

The last thing Sandy was about to drop in the bag were the pills she’d stolen from Hannah’s house. She would take them only if she got desperate, and then she’d take one pill. Maybe two. Except at this point, with the way she was feeling, Sandy wasn’t sure she could trust herself. Just in case, she should keep only a few and get rid of the rest. She cracked open the bottles and dumped the contents of both together into her palm.

When Sandy looked, there were a few different-shaped pills and a silver chain—broken at the clasp—with a silver moon charm, an aquamarine stone set inside.

It was Jenna’s necklace. The one she always had on. The one that meant so much to her, though even Sandy didn’t know why. Because for all the many secrets that Jenna wouldn’t keep from her daughter—about the drugs she took and the men she slept with—who gave her that necklace was the one thing she refused to tell.