With a newfound sense of hope and determination, I push through the door and my face slams against blacktop. My driveway.

I should have known I'd come out somewhere different. Maybe it's my driveway because I was concentrating so hard on my parents. I can still see their faces behind my eyelids each time I blink.

I walk through the front door and find my house empty. They're at the hospital, I think.

I tried to go back there several times. But every time I get close, my surroundings shift and I find myself nowhere near Memorial. It's like the Fold is keeping me away from myself –my unconscious, coma-ridden self.

There's nothing for me to do but wait. I walk into the living room and cross to the fireplace mantel. Years' worth of photographs are on display in shiny frames. Me at my first birthday. Hazel at hers. The two of us in the bathtub together, covered in bubbles that look like glistening snow. My father and my mother at their wedding. The four of us on our trip to Sedona. Hazel and I wearing matching polka dot Easter dresses. They're all next to the new prayer candle my mom lights every night.

I swallow down the lump rising in my throat. I'm not dead. Yet.

I will find my anchor and it will wake me up. I'm sure of it. Lies I tell myself.

It's not like the Fold comes with an instruction manual. Of all the times I imagined dying or pictured what came next –this was never it. A mysterious white room with static noise and invisible intercoms and my old school chalkboard was never it. It is beyond frustrating not having any direction. I am almost ninety-percent certain that the things appearing in the white room are figments of my own imagination. I'm putting them there.

The ticket dispenser looked exactly like the one from an old deli my mother used to take me to as a child. It closed down at least ten years ago. The green board with the busted ledge couldn't have be en replicated unless you already knew it existed. Then there's the microphone and the jazz song that my parents sang to me.

It's not the Fold. It's me. I've been making it all up.

The kitchen is pristine. I can imagine my mother scrubbing it down over and over just to give her idle hands something to do. The stainless toaster especially is sparkling in the natural light. I'm reminded of burnt toast –of the one bite I took before I left for school. I catch a phantom smell of coffee.

I wish I could eat in the Fold.

...

I crash onto the couch and lay my head back. It is still filled with that song. I can't shake the jazzy tune and it plays like static in the back of my mind. Headlights spill onto the wall in front of me and seconds later I hear my parents' car doors slam shut in the driveway.

This is it.

I stand up and smooth my hair even though I know they will not see it. It's more out of habit of always needing to look presentable for my mother. The front door handle turns down and it swings open.

My dad walks in first, followed by my mother, and last is Hazel. All three of them wear somber expressions and I'd bet anything they just came from Memorial. Hazel is still wearing the same black hoodie but I notice her hair is different. So it's a new day.

"I'll put on the oven," my mom says, walking absentmindedly into the kitchen. She always cooks or cleans when she's feeling anxious.

"I can manage it. Sit. Relax." My dad tries to divert her to the couch.

"No. I don't mind. There's a lasagna in the fridge. Hazel, honey, want to shower up before dinner?" My mom asks without looking at my sister.

I smile to myself. Leave it to my mom to worry about Hazel's presentation at a time like this.

"Fine." Hazel stalks off in the direction of the stairs. I can hear footsteps growing fainter.

The oven clicks on and a familiar hum fills the kitchen. My dad walks over to the furnace and switches it on. He sits on the edge of his chair, head in his hand, and massages his temples. I decide to make a go for it.

I sidestep to the couch and sit down next to my dad's chair.

"Dad?"

"Oh, Quinn." My dad sighs. "You have no idea how much we need you."

This is harder than I thought it would be. My eyes sting as I fight back the tears. I can't cry. Pull yourself together, Quinn.

"Dad?" My voice cracks. "Please hear me dad."

I try my best to touch him –to put my hand on his shoulder –to feel his arm. Nothing. I can't help the choking feeling that's gripping my throat right now.

"We should go back tonight after dinner." My mother says, appearing in the doorway.

"I can drive." My dad answers.

I look at my mom –at how tired she looks –how exhausted. She looks like how I feel. Exhausted, even though I don't seem to need sleep in the Fold.

The house phone rings and my mom retreats back into the kitchen.

I hear her pick up the phone and her muffled voice flows into the open space in the family room

"No, nothing. Yes, still the same room. 313. I'll see you tomorrow." Her voice falters when she hangs up.

I wonder who was on the other line. Maybe it was her sister, my aunt, or my grandmother. I wish I could get back to the hospital. I wish I could see myself. Maybe it's better I can't. Maybe it's a rule of the Fold. My ghost-self can't mess with my real, corporeal self.

Loud music starts upstairs and it sounds like it's coming from above the living room. My room. I recognize the song. Hazel is playing the CD in my old stereo boom box.

"Hazel! HAZEL! Turn that down!" My father shouts up the stairs.

I stand from the couch and walk into the kitchen, greeted by the smell of cooking lasagna. My mother is sitting at the table, head down. It takes me a minute to realize the sobbing sounds are coming from her.

My stomach drops to the floor. I hate seeing her this way. And because of me –because I had to stumble in the snow and lose my footing and topple sideways into the freezing reservoir!

"Mom." I whisper.

I take the empty chair next to hers and, again, lean in, desperate to have her feel my presence.

"Please come back to us, Quinn. Please." Her eyes swell.

"Mom, I'm right here." I choke through my own tears. "Please see me!"

I try to touch her hand. I stand and try and shake her shoulders. I try to blow out the candle in front of her on the table.

"Mom, you have to hear me. I'm gone if you don't. Please!" My voice cracks again. Whether it's from lack of use or my current spectrum of emotion, I am unsure. All I know is this new crippling feeling.

I'm so close I can smell her perfume. It boasts nostalgic comfort. It reminds me of being sick as a child and bundling myself in blankets and waiting for her to bring tea and soup to my room. What I would give to cozy up now, nestled in my bed, and wait for my mom to come check on me and hug me.

I run from the kitchen, right through the front door, and into the cold night air.

"What do you want? WHAT?" I throw my head back and scream into void that is the Fold. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!" I shout through the tears. "What do you want from me?"

I cry freely now, the truth settling in. I will soon be out of options. I will soon fail my task of finding my anchor. I'm not even sure what an anchor is, after all. What happens if I can't get out of the Fold? Do I stay forever? Do I move on? I'm too young to leave now.

This place needs a guidebook and maps and directions. Maybe a concierge. This place needs to offer something!