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“Your father has had detectives calling hospitals for a week. A week, Astra.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t explain having to file a missing person’s report.”

“I know.”

I hear her moving, a door closing somewhere, footsteps against hardwood.

“Richard.” Her voice pulls away from the phone. “It’s her. She’s alive.”

There’s a pause, muffled voices, and then my father’s voice comes on, low and controlled in the way it always gets right before it isn’t.

“Where are you?”

It’s not a question, really. It’s a demand dressed up as one.

“Ashbourne, Pennsylvania.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Living.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have right now.”

There’s a pause, and then my mother speaks again, her voice gentler than I expect. “We were so worried, sweetheart. I couldn’t sleep. I kept picturing every terrible thing that could’ve happened to you.”

Guilt lands heavy in my chest. “I’m so sorry I scared you. I really thought the note telling you I was safe would be enough.”

“A note isn’t the same as hearing your voice.”

“I know that now.”

“You’re really all right?” she asks, and for a moment she sounds like nothing but my mother’s relief.

“I’m alright. Better than alright, actually.”

“Thank God.” She lets out a shaky exhale. “Thank God.”

I let myself believe for one brief second that this might actually go the way I hoped.

Then my father’s voice cuts back in, harsher now that the fear has drained out of it.

“Now that we know you’re safe, let’s talk about getting you home.”

The warmth drops out of the moment so fast I shiver from the cold it leaves behind. “I’m not coming home.”

“Astra,” my mother says again, patient in the way she gets with difficult clients right before she wins. “You’ve had your fun for a few weeks. I understand you needed it. God knows the pressure on you has been enormous, and I should’ve recognized that sooner. But it’s time to come back now.”

“Mom, I’m not having a breakdown. I’m not confused. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“Forgive me if your recent behavior doesn’t read as clarity from where I’m sitting,” my father says.

“I left a note. I told you I was safe and that I would call you as soon as I was ready.”

“That’s not the point.”