"What do you mean she's gone?!" I screech.

Savannah wrings her hands together and shifts nervously, refusing to meet my eyes. When she doesn't answer I slam my palm down onto the sticky restaurant countertop.

She flinches, takes a deep breath, and says, "She's gone, Aria. Mom didn't come home last night."

I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. "She's not a goddamn dog, Sav. Have you tried calling Dina?"

"Obviously! I've called her a dozen times and she never answered, so I came here," she retorts, gesturing to the booths around her.

"Oh my god." I mutter. This cannot be happening.

Wait, let me rephrase that. This cannot be happening again.

I step away from the counter, begin untying my apron, and look around for RJ. Sidney notices and tips her chin towards the direction of his office. I tell Savannah to call a cab for us and then set off to inform my boss about my current family emergency.

Not only did I clock in late for my shift today, (thank you alarm clock and emotional exhaustion), but now I have to leave two hours early because Savannah came bustling through the front doors, backpack still slung across her shoulder, to inform me that our mother is missing.

Which honestly isn't unusual for her, but still. It's unsettling knowing that she's on another bender while we have absolutely no clue where she is or what she's doing.

Not to mention the fact that I feel somewhat guilty for not knowing she was even missing in the first place. In my defense, I assumed she was sleeping. I was exhausted after my afternoon job search yesterday (still no luck, by the way), and I crashed as soon as I got home.

Life feels like a blur lately and no matter how hard I try, I just can't keep up.

RJ takes pity on my situation and allows me to leave early. I agree to pick up an extra shift, which honestly I'm not complaining about, and after clocking out and grabbing my purse, Savannah and I step outside of the diner and wait on the corner for our cab.

The September air is stifling and the blazing sun warms my scalp and back as we wait. Savannah fidgets nervously with the strap of her backpack and blurts, "I'm sorry."

I rear my head back and shoot her a confused look. "For what? Mom does this all the time. It's not your fault, and I'm sorry if the way I acted made you think it was. It's all just so frustrating and stressful."

Sav shakes her head, "No, I know. I just.. I know that it's stressful for you. And I didn't want you to have to leave work and track her down. I'm sorry for the way mom acts towards you. I'm sorry that you have to deal with her shit... with everyone's shit. I'm just sorry."

I swallow harshly at her proclamation and throw my arm across her shoulders, "That's just the way it is. It sucks. But I'm used to it."

She opens her mouth to respond, but the screeching sound of tires cuts her off. I lead us to the cab, shuffle her inside, and give the driver Aunt Dina's address.

We're both quiet as we sit back and look out of our respective windows. I find myself lost in my thoughts once more, reminiscing on times when mom wasn't an alcoholic.

We were never a tight knit family. We'd never gone on a vacation. We never even sat at the dinner table together. We didn't show affection, didn't talk about feelings. We just didn't acknowledge each other.

Growing up, my childhood was an endless cycle of comforting and distracting Savannah while our parents argued and fought over bills, drugs, and infidelity.

My teenage years involved sneaking out of the house as much as possible; not that my parents would have noticed if I walked right out the front door, but I was determined to escape from the shit happening at home, so I turned to parties, casual hookups, and underage drinking.

And well, look at us now.

My thoughts are once again interrupted when the cab driver pulls into Aunt Dina's driveway. I pay our fare and exit the car, silently taking in Dina's property.

Dina's old doublewide sits dead in the middle of her yard. Her beaten up mailbox is lying on her gravel driveway, and scattered trash litters the overgrown lawn. Two broken down vehicles are parked haphazardly to the side of the trailer, and an old bathtub sits underneath a tall oak tree.

We weave through the tall weeds, dodging hovering mosquitoes and questionable garbage. Savannah peers through one of the windows while I storm up the rickety steps, fling open the screen door, and start pounding on it.

"Dina! It's Aria, open the door!" I stop knocking and wait, listening for the sound of footsteps or paranoid whispers.

When I hear neither, I try the door knob. It's unlocked and the door swings open, but it gets stopped halfway by a chain.

I peek through the tiny crack in the door, but I'm unable to see anyone or anything because it's pitch black inside. I step back and ponder for a moment, unsure of whether or not I should break in and look around.

Against my better judgement, I shoulder the door the rest of the way open, effectively breaking the flimsy chain, and catch it before it can slam back into the wall.

I flick the lights on, but nothing.

"Fuck," I murmer. I pull my phone out and use the flashlight application, shining it around the small, dingy trailer.

It smells awful. Tip-toeing into the kitchen, I see piles of moldy dishes and food in both the sink and overflowing garbage can. Beer bottles are scattered across the cracked linoleum floors and a skillet sits on top of the stove, an unknown substance coating the pan.

"Gross," Savannah mutters, peering over my shoulder.

"I don't think she's here." I say.

Savannah snorts. "I don't think anyone's here—probably haven't been for awhile."

I sigh and start to make my way towards the door, but I abruptly stop when Savannah lets out a strangled gasp behind me.

I spin around quickly, scanning my eyes over her frame, and relax when I see that she's not in danger.

"Jesus, what?" I snap.

She doesn't answer me, just continues staring forward.

"Savannah. What. Is. It?"

I shine my light over the coffee table in front of her and a bout of anger takes over every inch of my body.

Needles. Lots of needles. Pipes. Lighters. Aluminum foil. Spoons. Small empty baggies, lightly coated with an unknown residue. All laid out and on display, scattered messily across the dirty tabletop.

"Savannah," I grate, "Come on. Let's get outta here."

She doesn't move.

"Savannah!" I snap. "Let's go. Now."

When she still doesn't respond or bother to look away from the drug paraphernalia, I grab her elbow and drag her out the door. I pull the door closed behind us, slam the screen door, and pull a shell-shocked Savannah through the yard and down the gravel driveway.

I walk us a little farther down Dina's street and come to a stop when we're a safe distance from her trailer.

"Savannah," I coax, "You know Dina does that stuff. Always has. But that doesn't mean mom touched that shit, okay? We don't even know if they've been there recently."

She nods numbly.

I nod and wrap my arms around her, pulling her tightly into my chest. Her fingers grip the back of my t-shirt tightly.

"You're okay. It's okay," I whisper, "I'll call someone down at the sheriff's office and ask them to keep a look out for her. I'll check all the bars and liquor stores tonight if she still hasn't shown. Okay?"

Savannah clears her throat. "Okay."

I pull away from her and catch her eye. "I'm sorry you had to see that shit. I should've made you wait outside."

Savannah shakes her head and the broken look in her eyes chips away slowly at my cold, black heart.

"That's just the way it is," she says.

She's right. And it sucks. But it shouldn't have to be.

——

Hours later, I scoop out two grilled cheese sandwiches from the searing skillet on the stove. I place them each on a paper plate, grab two sodas from the fridge, and carry our dinner to the small dining table.

Savannah sits quietly, head down and picking at her nails.

"You hungry?" I ask.

She shrugs and pops the tab on her soda.

I wait for her to say something. Anything.

She doesn't.

"It's been awhile since we've sat down and ate dinner together," I try again.

Nothing.

Fuck. I'm really bad at this whole 'comforting' thing.

I eat my sandwich silently while Sav picks at hers and periodically sips her soda.

I clear my throat. "How was-"

I'm cut off when the front door swings open and mom stumbles inside. Savannah jumps up, relief etched across her soft features.

"Mom, thank God. I-"

"Not now, Savannah! I got a damn headache," she snaps.

Savannah visibly flinches, rearing back as if she'd been slapped.

That angers me.

I jump up, my chair screeching against the floor as I push it back, "Where were you?" I demand.

Mom rolls her eyes and pushes past me. She stops in front of the table, eyes our plates, and takes a bite out of Savannah's untouched grilled cheese.

I'm stunned as I stand to the side and watch how blatantly she ignores her own flesh and blood.

Before I can even blink, she disappears around the corner and pads to her room, the soft 'click' of her bedroom door closing shut echoing around us.

It's quiet for a moment, until Savannah roughly shoves her chair backwards and storms to her room.

I don't follow her, knowing that she won't want to talk and if I try to get anything out of her, it'll only piss her off and upset her more.

I clench my fists and briefly close my eyes.

Quietly, I pick up and discard our paper plates. I empty the rest of Sav's soda down the sink, chug the rest of mine, and throw the empty cans away. I turn the kitchen light off, grab my purse, and make my way to my room.

Closing the door and locking myself inside, I walk to my bed and slowly sink down onto the edge of my mattress. I sigh and run my hands over my face, wryly thinking to myself, well where the hell do we go from here?

——