ONE

THE SOUND OF traffic on Edmonton’s Stony Plain Road is almost soothing, like listening to surf on the shore. I dig my spoon into the top of my Blizzard, mine a huge chunk of ice cream laced with Reese’s Pieces. Slowly suck the mess off my spoon.

For a moment, I’m just here, sitting at a hard plastic booth at Dairy Queen, letting the ice cream dissolve in my mouth, crunching the candy with my molars. Just a girl enjoying a frozen treat on an early September day. Not Darby Swank, crime victim, niece to a murderer, daughter to a coward. Survivor of the news cycle. My classmates at Grant MacEwan College have been tactful but distant, not asking about the black eye that lingered the first few days of class. Well, most of them have been distant. One girl, Ruby, immediately asked if I was okay, and it was all I could do not to start crying.

It could be worse. At first I worried my voice might have been damaged permanently, ending my singing career before it even began. However, the hoarseness faded quickly with vocal rest.

And so I am lucky. I am counting my blessings. But I am not okay.