Kids. Dammit. Those two were as close as I was ever going to get.

No tears, not here. I stood back and took a good look at my family. My first family. We looked like a family—all of us relatively athletic, fit, like some kind of country club advertisement. Mom and Dad met on their college tennis team and still played a couple times a week. Dad's brown hair was going a rather distinguished gray. The girls all had the blond hair, though Mom's had almost turned the color of ash.

For a moment, Mom didn't look like Mom. She hadn't put on makeup, her chin-length hair was straight, unstyled, and the hospital gown left her looking lumpy, untailored. Mom was an extremely put-together woman. This version of her was unmistakably ill. She had no overt symptoms. She smiled easily enough. But the anxiety was there, in the tension of her jaw and hands.

Dad saw Ben first. Ben had slipped in quietly and leaned against the wall by the door. Dad's gaze drew everyone else's attention.

Well, I hadn't quite planned this to happen this way. Nothing to do but plunge ahead.

"This is Ben," I said. I went to grab him and pull him forward, guiding him by the elbow. I pointed and introduced. "Ben, this is my mom and dad—Gail and Jim. Cheryl, married to Mark over there, and the rug rats are Jeffy and Nicky."

"Hello, Ben," Mom said with a rich smile and insufferable smugness. "It's so good to finally meet you in person."

Ben very politely shook hands with my parents. "Mrs. Norville, Mr. Norville."

"God, this is so high school," I muttered, suddenly feeling sixteen years old. Weren't things like introducing your significant other to your parents supposed to get easier?

"Please, call me Gail," Mom purred, looking pleased as anything.

The room was almost cheerful, the walls painted rose, the blanket on the bed a happy yellow. They'd tried to add some brightness to the institutional setting. But it still smelled like a hospital. And Mom was still sick.

"What's going on? What's happening?" I said.

Mom brushed it all away. "I'll be fine. One way or the other, I'll be fine. The biopsy might even come back negative, and I'll have nothing to worry about. But even if it is malignant—I'll have a little radiation therapy, and it'll all be gone. I won't even have to stop working. It's all going to be fine."

She was the only one in the room who was smiling. I looked at my dad. I had never seen that expression on his face. I hadn't seen that expression on anyone's face. He was anguished in a way that was more than trying not to cry—he never cried. It was like he was watching the world fall apart, and he believed he was the one who had to hold it together. I assumed he'd talked to Mom's doctor, that he knew everything Mom did about the situation. For some reason, he didn't share her sunny proclamation of the outcome. Surely it was too early to be glum. Wasn't it too early to expect the worst? Even if she really did have breast cancer?

Right now, Mom wanted us all to be as cheerful as she was. Wanted us all to believe that everything was going to be okay. Maybe she was right. A little surgery, a little radiation. Cancer wasn't an automatic death sentence. Thousands of women survived this. Mom would be one of them.

Before they wheeled her off for the surgery, Mom squeezed my hand. "If I had known all it would take to get you to come home was getting cancer, I'd have done it sooner."

Sick or no, I could have slapped her for that. "Don't joke like that, Mom."

She had the good grace to look abashed. "I'm sorry, you're right. It's just so good to see you. You're not going to run off again, are you?"

I shook my head. "I'll be right here when you wake up."

"Good."

And that was that. The surgeon had a very soothing demeanor. When he said this was all routine, nothing to worry about, I started to believe it. We waited in one of those generic hospital waiting rooms, with plastic chairs and out-of-date magazines fanned out on the tables. Fake plants and pictures of flowers continued the atmosphere of forced cheerfulness. Ben was very patient, sitting with me the whole time. Dad asked him dad-type questions about work: So, son, what is it you do for a living? Ben managed to answer without bringing up any of the more sordid tales from his practice. Like Cormac, for example. Dad made small talk about his banking job. And there were always the kids to distract us. They turned out to be very useful for that. I watched them reading—pretending to read—their board books and flinging their stuffed toys. Ben watched me watching them, and we didn't say a word.

Mom sailed through the surgery without a hitch. The surgeon was sure he'd removed the whole lump—nobody had said tumor yet—but the test results wouldn't be in for a week. So now we waited.

After the surgery, Ben and I went home—a new home this time, at least for me. He had a second-story condo north of the Cherry Creek area. In his absence, it had gone a bit stale. Mothballed. I hadn't let him come here himself, not with the chance that Carl might find Ben and hunt him down as an invading rogue.

It was a bachelor pad, with little in the way of decoration. The living room had a cushy leather couch and a flat-screen TV. An old coffee table had books, magazines, and file folders piled on it. Half the room was an office: a desk in the corner was covered with work except for an empty space about the size of a laptop computer. There was a balcony off the living room. The kitchen was small, and the single bedroom was in the back. I had an urge to go snooping through all the cupboards and closets, to uncover his secrets.

"It didn't burn down," he said, closing the door behind him. "I'm almost shocked."

"How long have you lived here?"

"Four years maybe. I liked the place, the price was right." Moving over to the glass door to the balcony, he looked out over his view of the city, a carpet of treetops and stretch of buildings. He took a deep breath and exhaled. "It's good to be back. I've missed it."

To tell the truth, I'd missed Denver, too. My favorite restaurants, my old stomping grounds, the line of mountains to the west. But I couldn't enjoy being back. Too many worries.

I dropped my bag and sat on the sofa. Clasped my hands together and looked around, nervous. Exile over, just like that. I'd been displaced for months, since I left Denver. Now I was back, and I still felt displaced. I was a guest in a strange house.

Ben continued. "I guess we should go for groceries. I had my mom clear out all the food when she looked in on things for me. At least the fridge won't smell like sour milk."

Barely listening, I leaned back, holding my head. What was I going to do? I'd have thought I'd be used to my life falling apart by now. It seemed to happen so often.

He slumped onto the sofa next to me. "You want to check out the bedroom?" He had an obnoxious lilt to his brow.

"I bet you say that to all the girls," I said.

"I can tell you're not impressed by the place."

"It's not that. I'm just not sure what to do next."

"I suggested the bedroom—"

I groaned in mock anguish and curled against him, cuddling there, looking for comfort. "I half expect Carl and Meg to break through the door."

"Are they really that bad? You told me all the shit they did, but still. Are you sure you're not building them up in your mind, making it worse?"

I stared at him. "Trust me, I'm not making it worse. They killed my best friend." Carl, murderer, rapist, and Meg the raging bitch egging him on. Match made in hell.

Ben played with my hair, and I settled down, relaxing to his touch. This was his place, it smelled like him, and I felt safe. Mostly safe. I sighed again.

"I'm not sure what to be more freaked out about," I said. "My mom, or me, or the pack. Or Rick. God, if Rick finds out I'm here he'll take it the wrong way."