Caramel lets me sleep in her bed—just this once, she’s careful to say—and in the morning, I’m stiff and sore, but the scalding humiliation is—well, it’s freaking awful, but at least it’s a little less visceral. I’m not glowing red anymore.

I lay still for a minute, staring at the bundles of herbs hanging from the cottage’s exposed beams to dry, inhaling the lavender and sage as I listen to Caramel snore.

I want to sink through this sagging mattress, under the floorboards, down and down until I pop out the other side of the earth.

How do I face the pack?

I went from top of the lowest quartile...