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Sitch rolls into the ambu­lance with Pauly at his side. In the house, Vinny and the Meat­balls con­sole them­selves in that last ves­tige of fam­ily togeth­er­ness, the kitchen. Soon, they will breathe fresh air and reflect upon the futil­ity of vio­lence, even con­sider the sub­tle hints of their own sur­pris­ing mor­tal­ity, but for now, this fam­ily is trau­ma­tized, their shock acute. The trem­ble in JWOWW’s voice tells that story as she sits on Ronnie’s bed, try­ing to talk him down from this fit that has him curs­ing, pac­ing around the room. She comes to him with author­ity, with her own per­son­hood fully real­ized and call­ing forth to Ronnie’s, how­ever deeply buried it might be under­neath the rub­ble of sub­stances, adren­a­line, vio­lence, anger, code­pen­dent love, sin, the con­fu­sion of youth, unat­tended grief, and pain, and pain, and pain.

Sammi can’t find still­ness. For her, the kitchen is cold. It’s not where she wants to be, any­way, the shards of her heart pulling her to the mag­netic force that is Ron­nie, Ron­nie with another per­son. Vinny, ever the truth teller, hasn’t the patience to lis­ten and respond lov­ingly. Instead, his wis­dom is drenched in sar­casm. To feign indif­fer­ence, Sammi attempts to exam­ine her fin­ger­nail, real­izes that her hand is not in her line of vision, and read­justs accord­ingly. Her face, so near to her brain, reveals under­stand­ing of the need to leave alone and be left alone. Her thinly plucked eye­brows rise and come together, her blue eye­lids stretch low, her cheeks con­tract, and her lips stay sep­a­rate even while purs­ing into a frown of deep sad­ness. Below her neck, though, she is unset­tled. Shoul­ders tense, she squeezes her thumb hard against her fin­ger. Her other elbow is pointed to Ronnie’s room, that hand defi­antly on her hip. What chance has under­stand­ing when blood hisses hotly through veins, when the belly slith­ers around itself, when the heart rat­tles louder and louder, when love’s venom drips from its fangs?

It hap­pens in an instant, or rather no instant at all. She is mov­ing, and she is there, as if move­ment, itself, were arrival. She is greeted with rejec­tion. Ron roars aggres­sively, JWOWW pleads empath­i­cally, but their voices come out bari­tone and soprano in acci­den­tal har­mony. Sammi’s face twists, tight­ens, twirls. She is a Picasso come to life. She fum­bles for a response, rifling from one dis­po­si­tion to the next at the speed of sound. She con­fesses guilt, asks for for­give­ness, pleads for change, expresses dis­gust, accuses, claims inno­cence, and attacks. She sails on a stream of semi-consciousness, the breeze of her own vitu­per­a­tion guid­ing her, she is mov­ing, and she is there.

She is there, now. She is in her own dark­ened room. She is in her own empty bed. She is under­neath the cov­ers, lying side­ways in a semi-fetal posi­tion. Her com­forter looks soft and clean and warm, and she is buried under­neath it. She is alone. Sitch and Pauly are gone. Vinny, Snooki, and Deena are out of sight. JWOWW has risen to her feet, ner­vously straight­en­ing her hair, her eyes gen­tly moth­er­ing Ron­nie. He slouches on his bed, silent, a defeated pile of mus­cle and jew­elry. His eyes are unseen, but his face points to a cut on his right hand. He strokes his wound.

Sammi is alone. No one has fol­lowed her. No one else has spo­ken in sec­onds that feel like hours. No one can see her, and no one is look­ing for her. Unseen, her voice flies up and around. She is present to no one, and no one is present to her, but they are there, and she is there. She pauses for a sec­ond. Muf­fled but dis­tinct, a scream fills the house, “Leave me the f*** alone.” To whom does this dis­em­bod­ied voice cry out? Dis­sat­is­fied, the voice tries again, “Leave me the f*** alone.”