There are days when I feel so lightly connected to the earth that the threads that tether me to the planet are gossamer thin, spun sugar. A strong gust of wind could dislodge me completely, and I'd lift off and blow away, like one of those seeds in a dandelion clock. The threads tighten slightly from Monday to Friday.
A 29-year-old woman sets her house on fire with her two young daughters in it; only one of them survives. The girl grows up in care and makes her way into adulthood navigating the trauma of the past primarily with vodka and denial, and becoming something of a recluse in the process although she does hold a job. Ultimately, despite her insistence that she's completely fine, she begins to fall apart at the seams and finds herself being held together in no small measure by an unexpected friendship.