“Picked these up from Miss Thea,” she says, holding them out like a peace offering. “They’re herbal support and mild suppressants—not as strong as prescription, but enough to take the edge off. They won’t knock you out likeInvisira, but they’ll at least tell your body to slow the hell down.”
My fingers brush hers as I take them, the cool glass smooth in my palm. “Thanks,” I murmur, my voice smaller than I mean for it to be.
She doesn’t say anything, twists open the cap on the bottle of water she brought and presses it into my hand. The condensation chills my skin.
I pop one of the pills free from the foil, drop it onto my tongue, and wash it down, the earthy aftertaste lingering at the back of my throat.
Her voice softens. “You’re not broken, Wren. You know that, right?”
Something in me stutters. My chest tightens like a fist is pressing against my sternum. I want to tell her I don’t feel broken—I feel… wrong. But the words knot up.
She keeps going, her tone steady in the way only Norah can manage. “Sometimes building a nest helps. Gives you something to focus on. Calms the instinct part of your brain that’s probably screaming at you right now.”
I huff a weak laugh. “I have no idea how to even start. I suppress it before it gets this far.”
“Then I’ll help,” she says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “It’s all about making your room as comfortable as possible.”
And then she’s moving, efficient as always—pulling pillows off the couch downstairs, stacking them into my arms, then disappearing into the hallway closet for blankets. She even digs out the quilt my grandmother made, the one with uneven stitches and a faint scent of cedar from the chest it’s been kept in.
I feel a pang in my chest as she spreads it over the pile, smoothing her hands across the fabric like she’s tucking in a child.
We work in quiet rhythm—her handing me things, me arranging them in the corner of the bed. Soft layers on top of soft layers until it feels like a cocoon.
The air around us grows warmer, heavier, like it’s holding us inside a bubble.
By the time she steps back, I’m half-curled in it already without meaning to. There’s something instinctively soothing about being surrounded, like my body’s answering to some ancient blueprint I’ve spent my whole adult life ignoring.
“The worst thing you can do right now is panic,” Norah says, tucking the last blanket into place with a firm hand. “Okay?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Then there’s a knock at the door downstairs—three quick raps.
“I’ll get it,” she says, already heading down.
I hear the creak of the old hinges, the muffled exchange of words I can’t make out. A minute later, she’s back, holding a small brown-paper package, folded at the top and sealed with a strip of white tape.
“From the clinic,” she says, handing it to me. “Looks like they heard from your fireman.”
My stomach twists. Of course they did.
I peel back the tape and find a labeled orange prescription bottle—Invisira, the familiar block font glaring at me—and a folded slip of paper.
It’s Dr. Hale’s number in his tidy, deliberate handwriting, with one line underlined twice:Call if anything changes.
I stare at the pills like they’re a live wire. “They make me groggy,” I admit, my voice low.
“I usedInvisiraonce,” Norah says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “It wasn’t too bad. You just have to make sure you’ve eaten first.” She tips her head, studying me. “Speaking of which, can we order something?”
I nod. “Yeah. Thank you.”
“Pizza?”
I almost laugh, the sound catching in my throat. “Pizza.”
She grins and pulls her phone from her back pocket, ordering without asking my preference because she already knows it—pepperoni and mushrooms, extra cheese.
When it arrives, we eat cross-legged on the bed, balancing greasy boxes between us, the smell of oregano and melted mozzarella pushing back the sharp edge of my heat.
