Excerpt from The Atlas of Us by Kristin Dwyer, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Like you said, it's only four weeks. Anyone can do anything for four weeks," my mother tells me, and then she repeats my lie, "You'll be fine."

I absolutely will not be, and hearing her say what I've just told her makes me angry.

"Four weeks." I say it as if I could count each one of the hours against the syllables. It feels like an unfathomable amount of time.

My mother takes my hand and rubs her thumb over it like she's brushing away the untruths I've pressed into my palms and can excavate how I really feel. With a deep breath, she looks around. "At least it's pretty here."

I make a noise like I agree, but I keep my eyes on the dirt at our feet. I don't want to look at the pretty valley.

"I'll be at the end of the trail to pick you up and we can go—"

I swallow, feeling her getting close to the nerve of my pain. "Mom." Her name is firm in my voice. I don't want to argue with her. Not about what happens after this. Not right now.

She pushes her glasses up on her nose and then lets out a sigh. "Right, right," she whispers, almost to herself. Something she's taken to doing since she started grief counseling.

"You won't even know I'm gone," I tell her. And then I add, "I'll be good."

I don't know why I say it. Maybe it's just a leftover reflex from when my dad was sick and I spent so much time trying to keep her from falling apart. And the truth is, despite the canyon between us, I'm worried about her. She's going back home, alone. I search her eyes for the mom I used to know, the fighter, but all I can see are the cracks and fractures and splinters of a woman who used to be invincible.

Staying busy is a powerful dam for your emotions, and when that's gone, you're left with nothing. It's something I understand intimately.

A tall boy with a fade passes us and a piece of metal flashes in the light. His septum piercing. He's the third person to walk up the trail toward the camp, so I know it's time to say goodbye.

My mother wraps her arms around me and I take a breath, smelling the things that are just her. Knock-off Chanel perfume and something sweet.

My fingers bury into her light blouse. I put my face against her shoulder. Even though my mother and I don't seem to understand each other, she's still all I have.

I won't cry. I won't show her how nervous I feel. I take my fear and wear it like armor. Because if I break, she will break, and then what? What happens when our sorrow drowns both of us?

Nothing.

No one comes back, so what's the point?

When she releases me, my mother runs a hand down the side of my face, cupping my cheek. "Okay." With a deep breath she says, "Go be good."

Good.

Not bad.

Like I am.

Excerpted from The Atlas of Us by Kristin Dwyer. Copyright © 2024 by Kristin Dwyer. Excerpted by permission of HarperTeen. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.