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she doesn’t know won’t hurt me.
    A few seconds later, she bursts into my room. The door slams against the wall, enlarging the long-standing hole caused by a missing doorstop. Mom is frowning and breathing heavy from skipping up the stairs in a hurry. “Grace! Did you hear me calling you?”

    “Mm-hmm.” I study the diagram on my computer screen. Following the instructions, I position a size-twelve hook in the vice and load black thread into the bobbin. Holding a small duck feather in place, I loop the delicate string around it several times and add a few hackles. To top it off, I tie a perfect whip finish. It’s critical to make the fly just perfect down to the gnat’s eyebrow or the fish will know it’s a total fake.
    She stomps over and flips off my screen. “You’re being rude.”
    Without looking up, I mumble under my breath. “Ditto.”
    Her face pops up over my shoulder. I catch a whiff of her flowery perfume and unwillingly soften at the familiar scent. Until she speaks. “Why do you keep tying flies? Don’t you have enough?”
    Without looking up, I pin a fly onto my rack. Why do you care?
    Her breath tickles the nape of my neck. “Not talking? Why are you so crabby today?”
    I hang up another one of my masterpieces. “Why is it that you come in yelling at me, and I’m the one who’s crabby?” Blowing my self-inflicted “bangs” away from my face, I lean in and admire my handiwork.
    Mom grows strangely quiet behind me.
    I twirl around on the wobbly stool, nervous she’s found my case notes. Instead, she’s strolling around the room, hands clasped behind her back as if she’s visiting a museum. I cross my arms in front of me. “Mary, can I help you with something? Or are you just browsing?”
    She scowls back. “What’s this Mary thing lately? I don’t like it.”
    “Sorry … Mary .” Fighting with her seems unavoidable. We can’t—or maybe won’t—stop tromping on each other’s hot buttons. The days of swinging on the porch together, sipping lemonade, are a distant memory.
    Mom ignores me and continues perusing my room like it’s a cheap souvenir shop. She picks up a horse statue and flips it over, possibly checking for a price. “Heard you went to see Captain yesterday.”
    I rub my temples and curse my oversight. Two of the hundred and eleven things that suck about living in a small town? One, dumb news travels fast; and two, it always visits the wrong people first. In this town, if I blow my nose wrong, it’s sure to be breaking news in the “Medical Section” of The Smoky Review.
    Before I can reply, she sneaks in a dig of her own. “I called Jim.”
    “I figured.”
    “He’s expecting you at noon.”
    Great. I rub my forehead. “I’ll be sure to count the minutes.” It’s embarrassing enough that I’m forced to see a shrink, but one named Dr. Head? And I still don’t understand why I’m the one sentenced to whacko sessions when she’s the one who really needs it. “By the way, how come you get to call him Jim , but I have to call him Dr. Head? Or, should I say, Dr. Head-ache?”
    She exhales a long sigh, at least twenty seconds. “Because I’ve known him since high school.”
    Seated on the stool, I twirl in a circle so my world becomes one big blur. “Sounds like a conflict of interest to me.”
    She snaps back. “You know you’re my only interest.”
    I mumble. “I’m not crazy, Mom.”
    “Never said you were. But you concern me.”
    “Why, because I ask questions that you don’t want to know the answers to?”
    Mom sighs again. “I can’t get into this again right now. I’m late.”
    I finally notice she’s wearing her Daisy’s Diner apron. “Thought you weren’tgoing in until later?” Since Dad went missing, I never see Mom anymore. She’s either taking on extra shifts at Daisy’s or locking herself in her room until she leaves again. Some nights, she cries. Sometimes she just watches TV. Other times, I don’t hear anything at