I don't know where else to go.

Sheriff Colby's twangy warning echoes in my ears as I rev Cherry's engine. Because I'm too shaken to remember where Sheila lives, I make a left on Locust Drive instead of a right.

See, Mercy? I'm returning the phone. Just bring Mom back to me.

After realizing my mistake, I whip Cherry into a wide U-turn, counting the houses on the right-hand side. Idling in front of Sheila's drab house, I clutch her phone and hesitate before exiting the car.

Plump clouds are clustered, coloring the sky black. The wind outside rattles the car.

As if she felt me, Sheila's wooden-and-mesh screen door swings wide open. She bolts onto the porch, waving. The corduroy skirt she wore earlier has been replaced with with a long, jean one that touches her ankles. A maroon cardigan draped over bony shoulders falls past her hips.

She lumbers down her porch steps and stomps towards me. Pockets of bright, green weeds break through dirt along the perimeter of her fence. They are the only living things in the yard.

I finally get out of Cherry, holding her phone up.

"Are you OK?" Sheila asks, casting a wary glance at the sky.

I stole from her, and she's concerned about me?

I meet her at the gate and force the phone into her hands as if it'll combust at any moment. "I'm sorry I took it," I mumble. "I needed to get home for my mom. She was arrested by Sheriff Colby."

"Oh, no!" Sheila's red-rimmed eyes widen.

She takes the phone. Our fingers graze. The knot inside my stomach begins to unravel.

"My mom has issues."

I look at everything but Sheila. The scrape of yellow paint smudging Cherry's bumper. How the street's black asphalt glitters as sunlight tries to claw through the ink-colored sky.

"She's a diagnosed schizophrenic and went apeshit on the sheriffs, hitting and scratching them," I tell her.

Sheila opens and closes her mouth like a dying fish.

Stepping away from her rusted gate, I sit on the hood of Cherry's car. Sheila follows me and plops next to me, the wind tousling our hair.

I sigh. "You should also know that my twin sister died two years ago and we're having a really hard time."

It feels cathartic to say all of this out loud, even if only to Sheila Hyatt.

"I feel so bad for you, Moriah. I'd invite you inside, but Nana will be home from Bible study any minute. She doesn't let me have visitors."

If I wasn't feeling so sorry for myself, I'd throw a little pity her way.

"Is Nana your mom?"

"No. My mom is—gone. I was homeschooled until this year because Nana wanted to protect me from the world and its carnality."

Though this Nana sounds like an old crone, she's probably right to protect Sheila from me. I am the world Sheila's been warned of, and my carnality is a poison.

But I don't want to be alone right now. Especially with Mr. Thatcher fluttering his drapes next door.

"It's fine," I say, lying. "Sheriff Colby said Mom'll be home soon. I just wanted to bring your phone back."

Sheila wipes a fat drop of rain from her forehead, wincing. "I really wish I could invite you inside and show you pictures of my hogs."

"I'm fine. As appealing as those hogs sound, I'll just head home."

I'm breaking my mantras, but the guilt from stealing Sheila's phone still gnaws at me. "Why don't I pick you up for school tomorrow?"

She slides off of Cherry's hood and stands, pulling her cardigan tighter around her girth. "I'm not sure Nana would like that. But I'll tell you about the hogs at school tomorrow. I raise them for Pachuck High's 4-H Club."

None of this sounds interesting. But Sheila's the only friend I've made, so I'll indulge her. My feet hit the dampened ground with a slap as I hop from hood.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow. Sorry again about your phone."

A navy blue Prius whips the corner of Locust and slows to a stop behind Cherry. We turn at the sound. Reflections on the windshield hide the identity of the driver.

"Sheila? Sheila Hyatt?" A beanstalk of a woman opens the car's door.

"Yes?" Sheila asks, narrowing her eyes.

"Hi, I'm Maryanne Franderson." Shutting the Prius door, the lady walks briskly to us.

Maryanne looks to be about Mom's age, but is much thinner with bloodshot eyes peering out from her pale face. Dressed in jeans and a light blue windbreaker, she smooths her auburn hair with shaking hands; a ring on her left hand catches light and glimmers.

"Hi, Mrs. Franderson," Sheila greets in a high-pitched voice. "What are you doing here?"

Maryanne looks taken aback. "I wasn't aware you knew me. Is your mother around? I came by to speak with her."

Her eyes say, and I thought you'd be at school.

"This is Pachuck," Sheila chuckles, shifting her weight on the curb. "Everyone knows everyone. And my Nana isn't here right now. I'm sorry about Margaret, I haven't seen her since last Friday."

My eyes ping-pong between them. The Frandersons must be Margaret's host family.

"See? That's funny," Maryanne clasps blanched hands together. "Margaret had a 4-H meeting on Saturday morning. A friend came to pick her up. I thought it was you."

Sheila wiggles her face. "We did have 4-H. Margaret never showed up. And I don't have a car to pick Margaret up in."

I don't know what this 4-H shit is, but if it includes hogs and missing girls, count me out.

A slap of thunder is followed by pelts of rain.

Maryanne takes a step back, glancing between me, Sheila, and the sky. She asks, "And Margaret didn't call you?"

"No, ma'am. We were worried about her. But she didn't contact Mrs. Grant or me." Sheila gives a shrug that looks like an apology. "Have you checked her Facebook?"

"Margaret didn't keep one of those. But the FBI took her laptop this morning."

"Wow, the FBI?"

"This is serious," Maryanne gives Sheila a hard stare. "Since Margaret is from China, they're bringing in the big guns."

"Maybe Margaret lied to you," says Sheila. "I know that seems out of character for her. She wasn't the type to do rash things."

From the flaring of her nostrils, Maryanne doesn't seem to appreciate Sheila's suggestion or her referring to Margaret in past tense.

With a quivering bottom lip, Maryanne stands a little taller as she heads back to her Prius. "Thank you, Sheila. If you hear from Margaret, please give Sheriff Colby or me a call. Joe is at the hog farm all the time if you need to find him."

"I'll keep her in my prayers, Mrs. Franderson," Sheila promises with a small wave.

Maryanne mutters something as she gets back in her car. I'm not certain, but it sounds like: I'm sure you will.