I didn't sleep well, that night.

And I wasn't really surprised when I woke up, all trembly, swallowing back sudden floods of saliva that were waiting to transform into vomit, urging me to stumble from my bed toward what I hoped was a bathroom in this strange place that wasn't home, wasn't the brownstone, wasn't somewhere familiar.

And my head was pounding, and my thoughts were racing with nightmares worse than nightmares because they were fueled by memories, and then I was crying and then I was gagging (Open up, sweetheart) and I needed to throw up, I needed to (Beg me to do it. I'll make it so nice. Just ask. You'll like it. You will) not feel that awful tickle in my throat or taste my own faintly salty mouth, Jesus fucking Christ, where the fuck did they put the bathroom?!

My hands groped shakily at a small something my feet kicked over, and then I was hurling into it, it was vaguely trashcan-shaped and round (Just like that. Just like that. That's it, sweetheart) and I couldn't stop my mind from thinking about it, any more than I could stop throwing up, once I'd started, and my spine straightened as I launched into another bout, and (Come on, that's not how we ask. The lady doesn't even say please?) my breathing came in hitched gasps, and I could feel my heart beating hard, and my face was hot and I just wanted it to stop. The puking, Hob's voice in my head, all of it.

"Please," I panted.

(That's right. Okay. Okay. Yeah. That's how we ask. Oh, yeah. We get such nice things when we ask so politely.)

My grip went white-knuckled with the discipline it took me not to scream and throw something because I wanted him out of my fucking head, and I wanted to cry, but I couldn't scream or cry because I was busy throwing up everything my stomach had ever thought about, apparently. I spit the foul taste in my mouth into the trashcan, blinking hot tears from my eyes and listening to my own loud breathing. I hadn't thrown up like this…since I was little.

(Aww, poor baby Lindy. Get it all out, lambie.)

I blinked in surprise, still panting, still spitting the taste out. That wasn't Hob. That…that was my mom. (It's no fun to be sick, is it? It's okay. I'm here.) And it…it was more than the words. I could almost feel her hand, comforting on my back, or feeling my forehead for a fever.

After a false alarm that nonetheless left me gagging, breathless over the trashcan, I shakily stood, picking up the trashcan and bringing it with me—no one should have to deal with my nightmare vomit.

I fumbled my way to where I remembered the door to outside being, and accidentally engaged the deadbolt, confusing me, as I had to twist it again to unlock the door. I quietly disposed of the entire small trashcan in the larger outdoor bin, and hurriedly returned, hopping, to the nice, warm indoors, leaning against the sink in the kitchen, flipping the faucet on and cupping water to my mouth in my palms, swishing it around and spitting it out.

I hadn't thought of those kinds of memories with my mom…in years.

She…was great. She had died when I was seven. And I remembered so many little details about her, still. Things that had made her…her. Like, how she loved adding walnuts to her chocolate-chip cookie recipe. She loved baking. She liked to listen to baseball games while she baked, and she'd yell at the players like she was there. She hated movies where animals died. Like. Any of those old movies where the dog dies? Like Old Yeller, or Where the Red Fern Grows, or even The Neverending Story, where the Swamps of Sadness swallowed up Atreyu's horse. She loved Christmas and Thanksgiving. Oh, and she love love loved Audrey Hepburn. I haven't watched anything with Audrey Hepburn since she passed. I just…can't find it in me to do it.

She…she used to sing that song…the one from Breakfast at Tiffany's.

I smiled, when the words floated into my head.

"Moon River, wider than a mile," I whisper-sang, clearing my throat, bringing my still-wet hands to pat at my face. "I'm crossin' you in style someday. Old dream maker; you heartbreaker. Wherever you're goin', I'm goin' your way." I laughed softly in surprise. I hadn't thought of this song in years. And yet the lyrics came to my mind for the asking, and it wasn't Aubrey Hepburn or Frank Sinatra singing them, in my head. It was my mom.

I wetted my hands again, patting my face, holding cold fingers over irritated eyes. Smoothing back the stray hairs that had stuck uncomfortably to my forehead and neck, performing the comforting rituals of self-soothing that I had developed in my adolescence because I didn't have people left to soothe me when I needed it. Just me.

"Two drifters, off to see the world, there's such a lot of world to see," I continued at length, and the words my mother had always smiled to sing, touching my nose, as if to tell me that she and I were the two drifters—made me sad, now.

"We're after the same rainbow's end, waitin' 'round the bend, My huckleberry friend, Moon River, and me," I finished, running my hand under the faucet again. My eyes were hot, and I pressed my wet fingers over them, feeling dripping down my face, mingled tap water and tears.

"Lindy?"

I jumped a little, and when I lowered my hands from my eyes, I could make out Magda in the darkness, probably wearing that cute concerned look she usually gave Adrian when she was worried he wasn't eating enough.

"Hey, Magda," I said softly, and cleared my throat, again.

"You…are okay?" she asked softly, and I nodded.

"I'm fine, now. I was, um, feeling a little sick," I said, trying for a smile, hoping it didn't come across too watery. I wiped the excess water from my face, and Magda was there, offering me a paper towel, putting a comforting hand on my arm. I allowed a small smile and self-conscious laugh. Magda returned the smile.

"You cry because…you are unhappy? Here?" She asked softly. "You…try to leave?" She indicated the door, still unlocked.

"No, no no no," I assured her. "I wasn't going, I—I'm not even wearing shoes, Magda," I smiled a little wider, wiping my hands and face dry, lifting a bare foot to show her, in the moonlight. "I, um. I just…I was remembering some…sad things. After. Um. Talking to my sisters. I was sick, and I couldn't remember where the bathroom was. That's. That's all. I, um. Didn't mean to worry you."

"When…when you come? You always locking the door, yes? Makes you feel safe?" Magda nodded, twisting her hand in an approximation of locking a deadbolt.

I nodded. "I. Um. I…I wasn't always safe. Where. Where I lived before. Locking the door…it, um. Made me feel better, I think."

"Adrian. He always locking the door, too. He sees. He knows." Magda extended a finger, tapping her temple, and I nodded. "But…he stops, now. He think…he think maybe you…feel too much trapped." And Magda pointed again at the door in the kitchen. Unlocked.

I realized that, in my haste, before, to dispose of the trashcan, I hadn't realized that the door had already been unlocked. That I'd locked it by accident first. "He…He said that. He said maybe I thought I was his…his prisoner, or something. He told you that?" I murmured.

Magda scoffed, and the suddenness actually surprised a more genuine smile out of me. "You think that boy tell Magda anything? All he ever say is ask for food."

I laughed together with Magda, and it felt nice. She squeezed my arm with both of her hands, and then made a 'come' gesture, indicating I bend to give her a hug.

"Oh, oh, Lindy Lindy," she said, still hugging me. "You feel sad more, you come to Magda. Magda fix. Not silly boys."

I laughed, again, and just. It was so nice. She was just this nice, grandmotherly person, and she smelled like the lotion she liked using, and she seemed almost frail, until she squeezed me so tight, hugging me.

"Thank you, Magda," I said into her shoulder, and she gave me a final squeeze before pulling away.

"Now we sleep. Cold is bad for Magda's bones. Sleep helps. Good for after being sick." She squeezed my arm, guiding me back through the hallway to my room, pointing out the bathroom we passed, noting that it was better to use the toilet than to steal Adrian's dad's trashcan.

She came into my room with me, helped me smooth the covers, and she even turned on the fire, so I wouldn't be cold, so I'd have nice dreams.

After bidding her good night again, I didn't fall asleep, right away. I had a lot to think about. And since my stomach had emptied itself of everything, I felt the void, and was a little hungry.

I smiled, thinking of the quote from Charlotte's Web: "when your stomach is empty and your mind is full, it's always hard to sleep."

So I did some thinking. I thought about my mom. My sisters. My dad. Hob. My life. My old neighbors. My old neighborhoods.

The brownstone. Adrian. Will. Magda.

I thought of Adrian's strange comments. The ones that he'd said that indicated he had…been less than truthful. When he said, before, that he had always looked the way he did.

I thought of how well I knew Adrian, otherwise, and realized how easily I could think of his tells. I knew him. I knew when he was lying. Namely because it made him feel so guilty when he lied. I'm not sure why.

And it did make some things click into place.

How…weirdly sensitive he'd been about me staying with him, lately.

If he had been keeping this thing from me for all this time…no wonder it was eating at him.

We needed to clear the air about it soon.

Well, we needed to clear the air about some other stuff, first.

And I personally needed to do the thinking I'd promised Will I'd do.

No time like the present.

I extracted my journal from the drawer I'd unpacked it into, writing about the trip here. Writing helped me to organize my thoughts.

I wrote about the weird Kendra Hilferty dream, and I wrote about making snow people with Adrian, and I wrote about the comments he'd made.

But I left out other bits.

Bits I wasn't ready to dig into, yet.

The bits about the conversation Will and I had had in the car. Or the bits about me calling my sisters, or them talking to Hob or them confronting me about it.

And it did help.

Live here a year, Will told me, all those months ago. If I thought hard, I could still hear him say it. "Live here a year…At the end of the year, you'll be alive, safe, and a year closer to graduation. Can you say the same if you stay with your father?"

And upon thinking of my situation, I had to say…I knew what I preferred.

I mean, it was a no-brainer, really.

Pick the nice house? The Library?

Or any crap apartment I'd lived in for the past seven or eight years?

Pick Adrian? Will? And Magda?

Or my Dad. My sisters. And Hob?

A life of taking care of my Dad and all his junkie problems?

Or…a life taking care of Adrian. And All of his…Beast problems?

That was a harder question.

Well. In one respect, at least.

Because I didn't care about the Adrian part. I…I loved him. I didn't care so much what he looked like, or what I was…sacrificing. I guess. When I was with him. I'd gotten along just fine, the past few months.

It was…the future part. The not knowing. The…the part where I would probably eventually want to have more experiences than Adrian would be able to pay for.

Not for lack of trying.

Two drifters, off to see the world, there's such a lot of world to see, I doodled on a margin.

Well. That was that, I guess. The rest of this conversation had to be had with Adrian.

If it were up to me, though?

I guess…I was leaning toward staying.

If anyone could find a way to help me have all of life's experiences, but get to stay with the person I loved at the same time?

I was willing to bet Adrian could.