As soon as we get home, Mom pours herself a glass of tea and heads outside to our tiny backyard. She sits on the stoop under the shade of the sycamore Grampa also planted and lights a cigarette. I follow her, arms crossed. Looking at the knobs on her spine through her tank-top makes my eyes hurt, so I look at the school park behind our fence. “Mom,” I ask, a plea for the truth. She blows out smoke between us and tries to wave the burning ash smell away with her hand. “It’s just what I said, Em,” she says in a tired voice. “Rehab gave me a pass. A friend brought me and is picking me up to take me back in a minute. And Maggie paid me to do some work for her.” I sit down beside her and put my head on her shoulder. For a minute I try to believe her, that her best friend gave her money and that the rehab let her have a day off. But I look at her yellow skin again and know the truth. I rub the inside of her forearm with my fingertips, just like she likes. “I’m scared that you left.” “You are such a worry wart.” She straightens and gulps the last of her tea without meeting my eyes, takes a draw of her cigarette and flicks the ash in a terra-cotta plant saucer. “Nothing’s changed. I’ll be back home before you know it.” “Mom—“ “Tell me about your classes, college girl.” “I’m just taking basics, algebra—” I say, just as a car horn blares from out front. Mom stands up. “That’s my ride.”