thing this year has taught me, it's that anxiety is the brain's shittiest superpower. The ability to bend reality sounds awesome until it's not in my control. If I could fly, or disappear, or jump really high, it'd be great--but instead my chest pounds, my throat closes up, and I am one-hundred percent having a heart attack at the dinner table right now.

Mom and Dad don't notice, even though my pulse thumps in my neck like a mouse trying to dig its way out from under my skin. Charlotte's glued to her phone while Ollie shovels noodles into his mouth like it's his last meal. Nobody knows (or cares) about the red-hot anger burning my face, or the tightness around my heart that could kill me any second. I focus on their forks clinging and the light of the chandelier and anything to keep my mind off what Dad's saying to trigger this.

"I'm just telling you, El. It wasn't your best game. Coach said you seemed"—he spins a forkful of spaghetti—"distracted. Like you weren't giving it your all. That true?"

"No, it was Luke, Dad. He dove for the puck when it was coming right at me. I would've been able to score sooner, but he got in my way."

"That's no excuse. If you and Luke are having problems, you need to keep it off the ice."

"He's always competing with me."

"Of course he is, but are you the best player or not?"

"Adam, please." Mom touches his arm. "It's Charlotte's birthday. Let's take a night off hockey."

It would be nice if we could spend one dinner talking about Charlotte's dance or the fact that Ollie dropped out of college or Mom's cooking show or Constable Wexler's (Dad's) latest arrest. But no, it's always hockey.

Outside, snow falls from the black sky. Candles are lit around the table, and their reflections flicker in the window. I sigh and rest my chin on my palm, my anxiety calming. Okay, I'm good. I'm not dying. It's not a big deal.

A face appears in the window. I blink and she's gone. What the hell? I rub my eyes and blink five more times. Still nothing but the stupid snowman Charlotte drew on the frost. Maybe I am going nuts.

After dinner, I'm about to duck into the living room when Dad gently grabs my shoulder. The redness on his face has cooled, but his eyes beneath his glasses are still clouded with disappointment.

"I wasn't trying to upset you at dinner, El. You know it's because I want you to succeed, right?"

"I know."

"You should come skating with us. It'd mean a lot to Charlie."

I tug my shoulder out of his grasp. At the front door, Charlotte puts on her pink parka, reminding me of when she was the little brat who played Mario Kart with me. My chest sinks, because I'd like to go skating with everyone, I really would, but the thought of getting on the ice again makes me woozy. I need to get Luke out of my head.

"Dad, I celebrated with her last night," I say and look at my white socks.

With a sigh, he grips my shoulder in a way that says I accept this, but I don't accept you. Frustration burns through me, but I follow him to the foyer and lean against the archway, hands stuffed in the pockets of my jeans. Mom tries to put a pompom hat on Charlotte's head, but she pushes her away with a scowl.

"Mom, stop it! I'm not a little kid anymore!"

Yeah, she's at that age now. I swear a tear wells up in Mom's eye, but Charlotte's already on her phone. She used to be the sweet one—the "good" one—but she's been acting up lately. Even snuck out to some party last week.

When my family finally piles out the front door, I lock it behind them. Away from Dad's suffocating judgements and expectations, I can breathe for the first time in hours. Throwing my jacket over my hoodie, I head to the backyard and hike through the snow to the shed. The cold blisters my nose and ears. When I open the door and step inside, the smell of motor oil and damp wood surrounds me. A single lightbulb dangles from the ceiling and sways with the draft. This is my night off—I don't want to worry about hockey. Time to de-stress.

As I'm rolling a joint, my phone, face-up on the tool desk, vibrates. It's Katie.

Yeah, right. She was never coming.

I should be used to this by now, Katie's rejection causes my throat to squeeze shut. They hate you because you're a loser. They ditched you because you're a freak. You're a worthless, stupid, idiot loser.

Shut up, I tell myself, shut up, shut up, shut up.

I can't stand this, so I light up. Everything sucks when I'm sober, but when I'm high, it all falls together. A calm fog settles behind my eyes, chilling me out—until the sound of metal crashing onto wood rings in my ears.

My joint drops into a pile of sawdust. I stomp it out so it doesn't catch fire, then stop and listen. I'm not alone. Something's breathing, slow and stilted. It could be a raccoon, or a skunk, or some other kind of deranged animal. Fuck, the last thing I need is rabies.

"Who's there?" I ask. Silence. What a dumb question. It's nothing, just the wind.

But then something moves, and my breath hitches. A figure—a distinctly human figure—appears from the shadows. I grab the hammer on the desk and hold it up by my head with a trembling hand. I try to look strong, but fear paralyzes every muscle in my body—I am so not equipped to deal with a robber. Grabbing my phone, I get ready to dial 911 with my free hand while still carrying the hammer.

"Who's there?" I manage to ask again. "I don't want to hurt you, but—"

A girl steps into the light, and I breathe out a sigh/cough of relief.

Just a girl.

Wait, just a girl?

"Who the hell are you?" I demand.

Girl or not, her silence is threatening. My heart races, but I force myself to speak.

"You're stealing, aren't you? How'd you get in here?"

"I'll just go, okay?" Her voice shakes.

"No, you're not going anywhere." Yikes, I almost sounded like Dad there, but this is insane. The crooked light renders her large eyes as black as onyx, like she's a little demon or something. My anxiety skyrockets as my high settles in, and the walls throb around me.

The girl takes another step into the light until I can see her clearly. Her ripped jeans are too big for her thin legs, and her upper body is covered by nothing but a green and black flannel shirt. Bangs frame her impish face while freckles splatter her beige cheeks.

Heat rockets to my face. I didn't exactly expect her to be pretty.

When she slips past the bike, I stagger in front of her and bump into Dad's toolbox, knocking his screws all over the place. He's gonna kill me for that, but he'll kill me even more if I let this girl steal from him.

"Whatever you have"—I point at her fists—"you can't take it."

"Come on, just let me go," she begs, brown eyes so full of fear I almost feel bad for her.

"No, I'm calling the cops. You know this is private property, right?"

"You can't! I mean—please don't." She tries to get past me again, and I grab her arm, startled by how light she is. She yelps and jolts away. I retract my hand like I've been electrocuted, and she presses her back to the wall. Her fists are curled at her sides like she's thinking of shoving one in my face. I don't want to scare her, so I raise my hands and back off.

"Shit, I'm sorry. Hey, I'm sorry for grabbing you. But whatever you have, you can't take it."

"Stay the hell away from me."

"I'm not gonna hurt you, all right? Just give me back what you took."

"This is it, I swear." She drops a pile of screws on the desk, and I squint at them. "It was a mistake, okay? Just let me go."

"Are those... rusty screws? You know those are worthless, right?"

After glaring at me for a long moment, the fear melts from her expression, and now she has a certain glint on her face that reminds me of Charlotte when she has something to blackmail me with.

"What's your name?" She steps closer to me. "Because you look like a Junior."

"My name isn't Junior, it's Elliot."

"Okay, Elliot. Can you please let me go now?"

I have no idea what to do, but when she makes another run for it, I block her off from the doorway. She's right below me now, standing up to my chest, so close we'll touch if I move. My cheeks are as hot as lava, and now I'm the one backing into the door, cornered by her.

I swallow. Hard.

"Let me go," she murmurs. "You'll never see me again, I promise."

I shake my head.

She throws her head back. "Either you're calling the cops or you're not, but can you make up your mind? I'm not letting you trap me in here all night like some sort of weirdo."

Technically I don't need to call the cops—I have Dad on speed dial. But if I report this to him, nothing would stop her from telling him I'm out here getting stoned. It'd shatter Dad's image of me, and he'd know I'm not his perfect hockey-playing son, plus I'd be grounded for weeks.

"What are you doing out here alone, anyway?" the girl asks. "Just getting high by yourself? That's kind of sad."

"What? Shut up. It's not sad, it's Friday."

"You were supposed to be out with your family. That's what I thought, anyway. Yet here you are. How come?"

"Why do you know our schedule? This is beyond creepy."

Guilt fills her eyes, and she kicks at dirt on the floor. "Oh, okay... I'm sorry. It's not personal, you know. Stealing from you, I mean. I'm sorry."

Ugh, no, don't do that.

"Look," she says, "you don't know me, and I don't know you. I really am sorry for trying to steal, but you don't know what it's like. I'm short on cash, and sometimes a girl like me has to get creative. Just let me go and you'll never see me again, I promise."

Shit, here comes the guilt. Maybe she has a good reason for being here. Godfrey does have one of the highest youth homeless rates in all of the province, so maybe she has nowhere to go. And it's not like she was busting into my house or anything.

Sighing, I hook my hand to the back of my neck. "Okay."

Her brows shoot up, hidden beneath her straight fringe. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah, you can go."

"You're not calling the cops?"

"No. Don't really wanna get caught with weed anyway." I laugh. The girl whips open the door, and a gust of snow engulfs us. Out in the yard, she faces me.

"Thanks," she says and goes to leave. My stomach twists, because her whole body shakes as she moves through the snow, and I'm pretty sure the ends of her hair are literally frozen.

Not your business. Not your business.

But Mom always says to be kind to the less-fortunate. Dad would want me to call this in, but Mom would want me to show compassion. As for me—I guess what I really want is to help.

So I say, "Hey, wait."

She turns. "What?"

"Aren't you cold? You don't even have a winter coat. That's why you're here, right? Because you can't afford stuff like that?"

"What's your point?"

"Look, I'm probably gonna regret this, but..." I gesture my thumb to the back door. "I have so many coats, it's not even funny. I play hockey and, uh... never mind. If you promise never to come back, I'll give you one. Really, I wouldn't miss it."

She squints. "Why would you do something like that for me?"

"Well, maybe then, you won't have to steal from people anymore." When she's silent, I shrug it off. "Forget it. Sorry, you probably don't want it. Just don't come back, okay?" I walk toward the house, but as I'm grabbing the door handle, her voice stops me.

"Wait." The wind whips her long hair in waves over her face, and she chews on her bottom lip. "I'll take your coat. But if you try anything, I'll stab you."