I sat in the darkest, most isolated corner of the patio awning, feeling like a grotesque alien species that had crash-landed on my own property.

I was wearing the identical neon-pink bikini. But over it, I was entombed in a thick, oversized white terrycloth bathrobe, pulled tight around my neck, the belt knotted fiercely at my waist. I was sweating heavily.

A single drop rolled down the nape of my neck, tracing my spine, stinging violently as it hit the grafted skin stretched across my shoulder blades.

I gripped the armrests of my patio chair, my knuckles white, struggling to breathe through the suffocating heat and the rising tidal wave of panic.

Through the sliding glass doors of the kitchen, I could see my parents. They hovered in the background, pacing like caged animals. My mother was wringing her hands, tears constantly pooling in her eyes.

My father looked physically sick. They wanted to intervene. They wanted to shut the party down. But I’d made them promise, begging them the night before to let this happen. I’d told them that Chloe needed to know, that the poison had to be lanced. They were paralyzed by their own anxiety, terrified of the psychological explosion about to detonate in their backyard.