Page 93 of Gave Proof Through the Night

While I love the Dangerous nickname, something made me want to change her contact info after yesterday’s breakfast. I dunno. I feel like something significant shifted between us. Don’t ask why that called for a contact name change, but it did.

I’m grinning before I’ve even unlocked the screen. The timestamp says ten a.m., so her text came in while I was in the middle of my morning skate. She was thinking about me while I was getting yelled at for a lazy backcheck. Awww.

I read the first text.

America: two truths and a lie. go.

Bold, starting a game before I’ve even played mine tonight.

America: 1. im secretly a time traveling alien sent from the year 2417 to study earth hockey culture

That gets an actual laugh out of me, loud enough that somebody two stalls down glances over. I’m fairly certain that was the lie. I don’t think she gets how this game works.

America: 2. im never giving the hat back its mine now

The hat, I’d bet good money on, is a truth. That hat’s basically bonded to her scalp at this point. So the next one…

America: 3. my dad is in prison

My stomach drops so fast it actually hurts, like something got yanked out from under it.

I read it four times before the words sink in. Then my whole body goes cold.

Something happened between yesterday’s breakfast and ten this morning, and I’ve had no idea for almost an hour.

I skip the lunch. Skip the shower too, still in my sweaty underclothes, hair damp under a backward cap, and I’m out the door before anybody asks where I’m going.

I take an Uber, knee bouncing the whole ride, to her Airbnb. It looks almost sketchier in the daylight. In fact, it doesn’t look like an Airbnb at all.

I knock. Nothing. Then, muffled through the door, female voices and feet scrambling around inside.

“My stuff is spread out. No, I need these tables.”

“Cover it up.”

“This is delicate work.“

More scrambling about.

“Don’t touch the settings.”

“Then move your stuff.”

“It’s too heavy.”

Then silence. Then the door flies open so fast I take a step back.

A single face fills the gap, framed exactly to the width of the chain. Dark eyes run the length of me, unhurried, like she’s pricing me for parts.

“We don’t want any,” she says, and shuts the door.

I stand there a second, recalibrating. Knock again.

“I'm looking for Erica. Er… America. This is the right building. Right? I brought her here Sunday.”

I think this is the place.

The gap reopens. Same face. Slightly less patient.