It had been a year.

A year since Guest’s grandpa and brother scraped together every dollar they could to send them to that in-patient treatment center. A year since they said goodbye at the bus station, faces tight with forced smiles and eyes glossy with hope—or maybe guilt. Guest hadn’t been sure then. Guest wasn’t sure now.

They called it "treatment," but no one could really tell Guest what for. Sure, ADHD and BPD had been thrown around by people in white coats who talked like Guest wasn’t in the room. But there was something else beneath it, wasn’t there? Something darker that nobody had words for. Guest didn’t know either. All Guest knew was that they were scared—of Guest.

At first, the phone calls came like clockwork. Every day. Then it was every week. Then once a month, if that. Guest’s grandpa's voice got weaker with every call, Dustin’s more distant. Guest stopped waiting for the phone to ring.

And now here Guest was, a year older, a little taller, standing in front of the same worn-out trailer park where they’d spent their life tearing through dirt roads and scaring the neighbors. The familiar air smelled of diesel and dry grass, but it felt different. Or maybe Guest felt different.

People stared as Guest walked past. The stares weren’t new—Guest had grown up being the kid everyone whispered about. But today they weren’t wary or angry. They were curious. The little hell-raiser they’d known wasn’t stomping through the park anymore.

Guest stopped in front of the trailer door, fist hovering over the wood. Knocking felt heavier than it should. When Guest finally knocked, the sound echoed sharp and final. Footsteps shuffled inside, and then the door opened.

Dustin and Grandpa stood there, staring like Guest was a ghost. Dustin looked older, like the year had taken a toll. Grandpa too, but his age wasn’t just in his face—it was in the way he leaned against the doorframe. Guest met their eyes and saw it: the shock, the hesitation, the hope they didn’t know how to hold onto.