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Four years. We hated each other for four years. That is, until Dad's Tahoe pushed us into the same back seat—two days in a row, half of my body was pressed against his thigh. On the other side of the carton wall, Dad was driving three feet away. On this side of the cardboard wall, his arms were wrapped around my stomach like a steel cage, his thumb was circling on the inside of my thighs, and his breath was blowing warmly in my ears. When his fingers first reached under my leggings, I should have pushed him away. I should have screamed when he grabbed my throat and roared with his lips against my auricle. The moment he whispered, "I don't want to hate you," I should have let that wall stand up again. But I didn't. The worst thing is – I don't want him to stop. Our parents got married and shared a pair of twin sisters. He was supposed to be my family. But in the back seat of this car, all the "shoulds" are collapsing. There are still two days left in this car. And I was already obsessed with the truth that I had spent four years trying to escape.