"JILL, DID YOU finish cleaning the rooms?" Mom sweeps the last speck of dust from the bookshelf with a microfiber cloth. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I throw some laundry into the hamper. The AC rattles in the window, but the cool air is as effective as a desktop fan in this heat. Who knew adding an extra body to our home would raise the temperature so much.

"Yes, Mom," I say. "Everything's spotless. Nolan even cleaned his own room."

"Good, good. Nolan, you should come out here too. Our caseworker will be here any second."

Since Colleen went to rehab in Lexington, paid for by some of the money Grandma left behind, Mom was given temporary custody of Nolan. Full custody is her goal, but the judge wants validation from a 'licensed official' on whether or not this is a safe home environment for him, especially after what the caseworker saw of Colleen's place before. So as of today, this'll be our second inspection in two weeks. All I have to say is: thank God for Carson. He's still down there finishing the Sunday shift, and he didn't have a single complaint when I said I had to leave early. On top of that, he's upped his guitar lessons for Nolan ever since the accident.

We haven't talked about the almost-kiss in the kitchen before the crash. Like, at all. But I'm okay with that for now.

Mom ditches the cleaning and joins the two of us by the front door.

"How should I act?" Nolan asks.

"You don't have to act," Mom says. "You're happy here, right?"

He nods.

"Good. Then be honest. Be yourself."

Three sharp raps at the door make us flinch. Mom takes a deep breath, forces a smile, and whips it open. I straighten up like a soldier, as if Belinda—a woman who can't be taller than 5'2—is my drill sergeant. With a mess of scarves around her neck despite the growing heat outside, she shoves past the door, face flushed like Mrs. Claus.

"Hello, young man," she says to my cousin, not glancing at Mom or me.

Nolan blinks. "Hi."

Same as last time, Belinda drops an oversized bag filled with random files and folders on the floor and glances around with judgement in her eyes. I get it, it's her job. But I can't help but take it personally when she raises her nose at our things. She nearly trips over the end table on her way into the living room.

The investigation follows the same procedure as before: Belinda peeks around at everything, asks us a mess of questions about our lives and financial situation, then talks to each of us alone. Mom and I go into my bedroom while she interviews Nolan, but we can hear all of it. She asks about school, if he's happy, well fed, sleeping okay. He tells her he'd rather be here than anywhere else. She says that's great, but her tone is clipped with uncertainty.

Belinda asks for me next. I'm on the couch as she jots things down on a notepad from the wicker chair across from me, and I feel like I'm under arrest. I check my dry, unclipped nails. Crap, I don't look that presentable, but I couldn't sleep last night and I worked all day. What if I say the wrong—

She drops her pen and smiles at me, round face topped with a grey perm. "So, Jillian. Remind me how old you are again?"

"Seventeen. Eighteen in August."

"And you've lived here for about five years?"

"Yeah." I go to play with my necklace, but mentally swat myself on the hand. "We lived in the trailer park before."

Her eyes are big, glassy, and blue. Not unkind, just uneasy. "Do you prefer it here?"

"Of course, it's great. Small, but great."

"Right. And what age did you start working at the diner downstairs?"

"Twelve—I mean, um... fifteen?"

Belinda's eyebrows raise. Shit. Damn me and my honest mouth.

"You started with twelve," she says. "You know a child can't legally work until they're fourteen. Even then there are restrictions."

"I know, but..."

"Having a child work underage could be considered abusive."

"No, look, it wasn't like that. Mom didn't force me to work, I wanted to. I wanted to help out. She gets child support from my dad but it isn't enough. We were going through a tough time, and I swear I didn't start waitressing until I was fifteen. Before that, it was just helping out a little, you know, odd stuff. Peeling potatoes."

"The law states no child under fourteen is permitted to work at a licensed establishment."

"We'd never ask that. I swear."

Belinda nods. "Okay. That's all for now. Thank you, Jillian."

Oh, God. I think I just messed everything up. I keep my head down as I go into my room, and Mom takes my spot on the 'interview couch.' I press my ear to the door so I can hear them talk.

"You have a good thing going here," Belinda says. "It is much more stable than the last home I saw him in. Here, Nolan has a clean roof over his head, which is a lot more than many children can unfortunately say. Obviously foster care is a last resort, but if you're going for full custody, I do have some concerns."

"Please tell me," Mom says.

"I don't know if this is the most stable home for a child to be raised in either, especially when you already have a teenage daughter."

"Jillian is mature for her age. She always steps up for Nolan, even offered her room to him, but I wouldn't let her give it up. I know our home is small, but with me sleeping in the sunroom downstairs, there's more than enough room for Jillian and Nolan. This is the only place for him to be raised. Even when Colleen gets out, I'd hate to see him return to that environment."

Pause. "And you'll still be seeking full custody from Mrs. Mills?"

"Yes, I am. I want Nolan under my care."

"You already have a busy life, Sharon. Will Mrs. Mills consent to the transfer once she is out of rehab?"

Mom goes quiet. While Colleen knows we're looking after Nolan, we haven't talked to her since she got into rehab. So of course she doesn't know Mom wants full custody, whether Colleen recovers or not.

"I'm going to talk to her," Mom says. "We have the more stable home, and I'm more financially equipped to take care of him."

"I'm on your side about that. Your restaurant does seem busy though, and your daughter seems overworked too. I hope it hasn't affected her schooling."

Mom says nothing, but she must've flinched at that. I don't think working ever affected my grades—Mom made it clear that school always comes first. It's other distractions that sometimes keep me from doing my best, but I'm not going to university yet anyway. We need to do this one step at a time, and right now, my family is more important than school.

"The good news is," Belinda says, "he seems much happier here than with his mother, and I can't deny that. But my main concern is balancing the restaurant with caring for him and your daughter."

"What if I keep closed on Sundays?"

"I suppose that could give you more time to focus on his needs. Such as help with homework. You're aware Nolan is struggling in a few classes. He needs proper parental guidance, and it would not be good if you asked him to help out around the restaurant instead of focusing on school."

"No, I would never ask Nolan to work. I'm willing to hire more people and keep the restaurant closed on Sundays. We'll still be good financially, we're doing well in that regard."

"Okay then. How about this: I'll return next week, and we can see how things are going then."

"Sure, that sounds good. Thank you."

The front door creaks open, and as soon as we hear it shut, Nolan and I come out. Nolan plops on the couch with his Spider-Man comic. Joining Mom by the kitchen, I lean my elbows against the breakfast bar. Mom's brows pinch, and she chugs a glass of water.

"Well," I say, "that didn't go completely horrible, right?"

"I don't know, Jillie. Truth be told, I can't tell. I think Belinda's next visit will be the deciding factor." Mom's eyes grow misty. "But she's right about a lot of things. The restaurant keeps me busy, we don't have enough workers, and I put far too much on you. Even with Colleen's alcoholism, it isn't easy to take custody away from a mother."

No words come out. I'd be lying if I said life here hasn't sometimes taken its toll on me. It's been days since I've been able to relax enough to actually play guitar, and the two weeks since the crash have sped by in a haze of stress and anxiety. I've been so preoccupied that I haven't even given much thought to where Carson and I should go from here after almost kissing, which isn't fair for him, either. But he's been nice to me. So I know he's not angry.

"You know I grew up too fast, too." Mom swirls the water in her cup into a little vortex. "I never wanted this life for you. I wanted you to have fun and be a kid. You're still a kid, you shouldn't have to be taking care of your family all the time, working at the restaurant every free second of your day, or looking after me."

"It is a lot, but I want to help, Mom. I need to."

"Well, after today, it's official. We're hiring some new people. It'll be a bit of a hit, but I need more time away, and so do you. I want you to be able to spend more time with Carson. You two seem to be getting along well."

"Yeah," I mumble. "We do get along well."

"Just please," she whispers, "please don't get pregnant."

"Mom!" My face flushes, and I glance at Nolan. He's too absorbed by his comic to hear us. "I haven't even kissed him. Can we leave it at that please?"

"I know, I know. But I'm obligated to remind you."

Mom still maintains I was the best thing that ever happened to her, but she doesn't want to see me seventeen and pregnant—and I sure as hell don't want that either. If I ever do have sex again, it'll be with protection.

The stove's digital clock reads 5:34. Carson's probably done working by now and waiting for a ride home downstairs, so I tell everyone I'll be back in a few and grab my keys.

***

We drive toward the sun as it dips into the horizon. These stretches of tired silence over music have been my happy place for the last two weeks. I've grown used to having Carson in my passenger's seat, but it never lasts long enough; we're parked outside of his trailer before I know it. He unbuckles his seatbelt, but doesn't move.

"You sure you're okay?" he asks, and the sun brightens the mossy hues in his eyes. The stress is like a constant ball of static in my chest, but being near him seems to help these days. Even if it's temporary.

"Yeah," I say. "I'm holding onto hope. But we'll be hiring some new people."

"That'd be good for your mom."

"And maybe us too."

Carson's face reddens as he picks at his nails and sinks in the seat. "You could come inside if you wanted. If you need a night off or whatever."

"Won't your mom care?"

"Trust me, she won't." He pauses. "It's just... you're allowed to take a break from all the stress, Jill. Could even stay the night if you wanted."

Staring at his mouth, I remember the feeling of his lips so close to mine. An inferno of desire bubbles within me, followed by guilt. I can tell not talking about 'us' has been eating Carson up more than it has me.

"Hey, listen," I start. "Before the crash, about that..."

He swallows while I hug myself. Eventually, he says, "It's all good. If you changed your mind or whatever, I get it."

"It's not that. I've just been distracted."

A half-smile tugs at his lips. "It's okay. I know you, Jill. Your family comes first."

"Yeah, but still. I feel like I owe you an explanation."

"Don't worry about it. If you need time, you need time."

Part of me doesn't want time. Part of me has already decided: I like Carson and I want to finish that kiss. Hell, falling asleep in his arms would be a dream come true—but with everything going on, now truly isn't the time. I already told my mom and my cousin I'd come back. Even if I did go inside with Carson, I'd be too distracted to give him my full attention.

It hurts, but I say, "Thanks, Carson... I really do have to get home. But thanks."

Though his eyes flicker with sadness, he smiles. "I'll text you. If you change your mind later, the offer's not going anywhere." He opens the car door.

Regret curdles inside me. I want to go with him. Clenching my eyes, I grip the steering wheel until my fingers hurt. My attraction for him burns brighter every day; it's gnawing and insatiable and it kills me to reject him. Even if we haven't talked about labels, Carson and I have definitely moved beyond 'just friends.' But it sucks because I can't have him, not wholly. Not the way I want to.

"Carson, wait."

Hope sparks on his face, and he leans back into the car. "Yeah?"

"I really do want to hang out. Soon, okay? I promise."

With a half-smile, he shuts the door and heads to his trailer. Sadness squeezes my throat, but I watch the door close behind him anyway.

I have my own wants and desires, but I can't focus on them until this thing with Nolan is resolved. My family has to come first.

By the time I get back to the diner, sunset paints the sky in tiger stripes. I'm still thinking about Carson's hands on me. Still missing him. But when I get into the parking lot around the side of the building, I frown—because there's a motorcycle in the spot Mom normally parks in. Her SUV got totalled pretty bad, and she's still dealing with insurance so she doesn't have a new car yet. But she definitely didn't get a bike, and Matias doesn't have one, either.

After I get out of the car, I take a closer look at the bike as I pass. Dark brown leather and shiny black paint. A skull with flaming eyes. It's tacky as hell, and I know every motorcycle in Hull, from Mr. Stokes' red Harley to Ethan Leeds' dirt bike. Whoever this belongs to is a stranger to this town.

A ball of lint forms in my throat, but I head to the front door. I'm probably tripping; maybe somebody just parked here, and there isn't some strange biker in my house. But when I get inside, I'm met by a man beside the bar with his back facing me. Mom's on the other side with her hand to her forehead. Neither of them notice me, like they're so sucked into each other I've gone invisible. A faded leather jacket covers the man's body, and on the back is maroon lettering. Flame lettering.

Judas Cradle.

My keys fall from my hand.

"Dad?"