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ONE

It’s pitch dark, pouring rain, and I have no idea where I’m going, which is also the perfect analogy for my life. As I drive, squinting through the fogged-up windshield, a bug zigzags down the glass, caught in a rivulet where the broken wiper can’t reach. It keeps getting a grip, legs scrabbling to hold itself steady, to catch its breath for one merciful second before the pounding rain sends it tumbling down until it finds the next spot where it’s so sure it is safe … and it’s not.

The rain finally washes the poor bug into the path of the wiper, and it’s crushed into a dark smear on the glass.

“All the analogies, all the time,” I mutter.

I’ve spent my adult life looking for those safe footholds, for places where I can hole up and breathe and regain my balance. And, in my desperate bid for stability, I’ve always stayed just a little too long. Jobs where I was mistreated and cheated. Relationships where I was mistreated and cheated on. Like that bug, I cling until I’m washed away by a trickle of remaining dignity that finally says “Enough.”

Now, once again, I’m retreating to the only place I know is safe.

Home.

According to the GPS, I’ll be there in …

I frown at the screen. I’ve driven off the map. When did that happen? I must have lost cell service in the storm. I check the car clock.

11:56.

I blink. That’s not right. I left at seven, heading out right after my last day at work. I grabbed dinner at a drive-thru and was on track to be at my parents’ place before midnight. I tap the clock, as if that will help. Then I realize—duh—I have both a watch and a phone.

I squint at the phone. 11:57. My watch says the same.

When did I last check the time? The map diverted me for a slowdown at ten, and I’d been thinking that I might be slightly later than expected and I should call my mom, because at 12:01 she’ll start to panic, as if the roads turn to lava at midnight.

It can’t be this late, though. Sure, I’m driving at … I check the speedometer. Twenty-five miles an hour? No wonder the other cars that took the same detour are long gone. I’m being careful on the unfamiliar road. I will never endanger another person’s life with my recklessness.

Never again, you mean.

I take a deep breath, as my old therapist’s voice overrides my inner one, telling me for the hundredth time that what happened wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t being “reckless.” I was being a ten-year-old child.

The point is that I’m driving far below the speed limit, because of the rain and my bad wiper, but there is still no way it’s taken me two hours to travel about fifteen miles.

Thunder crashes, making me jump, my hands death-gripping the steering wheel.

When my breathing slows, I recheck the time. I’m seeing it wrong, I must be. I’m tired, and my vision is blurring and—

11:59.

That isn’t possible.

I turn back to the GPS. The last time I saw the map, Lake Michigan had been somewhere to my left, which is correct. I’ve been living in Chicago, and my parents are up near Traverse City. The best route hugs the lake on 196. I’d been near the spot where it veers inland, so it makes sense the detour took me onto a smaller lakeside route. I just can’t see the actual lake … or anything else.

As if in response, lightning flashes, and I get a two-second view of my surroundings. Trees. That’s all I see. Looming hardwoods on either side.

The windshield fogs, and I spin the dial on the fan, as if that will help. Then I rub away condensation and peer into the darkness, seeing nothing but road and precious little of that, asphalt swallowed by the rain and night.

I take a deep breath and focus on home. I’ll get there, no matter how long it takes, and when I arrive Dad will come to carry my bags, despite the storm while Mom will stand on the porch, waiting to pull me into a crushing hug.

They’re always delighted to see me, no matter how little I’ve done with the wonderful life they gave me.

Oh, but you’re still so young, Ellie. You just need time. The right job will come along. The right man will come along. And you’ll look back and laugh at yourself for being in such a hurry.

They’ve been saying that since I was eighteen. I’m now thirty-five. I have three partial degrees, one ex-fiancé, and the car my parents gave me for graduating high school. But Dad will fix the old car and Mom will mend my frayed seams. They’ll patch me up as best they can and give me the courage I need to venture into the world again.

I just need to get—

A woman appears in my headlights. I yelp and yank the wheel as I jam on the brakes. My foot goes to the floor, and nothing happens. I jerk the steering wheel, but the car keeps barreling toward the woman.