Page 220 of What We Burn

The anchor moves to a panel discussion about trial by social media, the chain-of-custody fuck-up, and whether the matching confessions vindicate Dave’s ex-wife. The panelists nod gravely, as if they haven’t spent the entire evening feeding the story. A former prosecutor argues that once the rape kit became inadmissible, the chances of the victim getting justice plummeted. The survivor advocate beside him asks why the burden is still on victims to prove something happened to them.

I watch the chyron instead of the panel. Four days ago this was a local story. Now it has a graphic, a hashtag, a panel. Stories are supposed to peak and die. This one keeps compounding, and I can’t decide what’s feeding it—which is a sentence I would circle in red if a student wrote it.

Micah stretches his arms above his head, then tips his head back against the sofa and closes his eyes. He has the ability to rest in any position, which I’ve always found slightly infuriating. “You want a drink? I’m getting water.”

“Water’s good.”

He gets up, joints clicking, and heads into the kitchen. The fridge door opens. He takes down the glasses.

The stairs creak.

When Micah reappears with our water, Sage is behind him.

“Found her snooping in the hall,” he says, handing me a glass.

She’s in an oversized shirt that’s mine, actually—one I thought I’d lost, a soft gray Henley I’ve owned for years that disappeared sometime during my first week here. Her hair is in a messy knot.

“I wasn’t snooping,” she says. “I was just—” She points vaguely toward the kitchen. “Tea.”

“Sit,” Micah says. “I’ll make you tea.”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“Chamomile or the mint. Which one?”

She considers. “Chamomile.”

She pads farther into the living room while Micah disappears back into the kitchen, and stands at the edge of the couch.

“Have you slept?” she asks.

“Not yet.”

“Knox is up there snoring up a storm.”

“Is that why you’re awake?”

“No. I don’t mind it. It’s comforting in a way.” She folds herself onto the couch and tucks her feet under her. I pass her my blanket. I’m aware of the distance between us, which is exactly one person-width—both more and less than it’s been at various points.

“Bad dream?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No dream. Just awake.” She looks at her hands in her lap. “I keep doing that. Going to sleep fine and then waking up at two and not knowing why. My brain just decides it’s done.”

“Mine does the same thing.”

She glances at me sideways. “Your brain decides everything’s done and then argues with itself about it.”

“Accurate.”

“You should stop.”

“I’ve tried.”

“Try harder.”

I feel the edge of a smile. The strange, tentative thing that’s been showing up lately that I don’t know what to do with. Like a window that got stuck shut for years and is now opening a crack. Not all the way. Just enough for air.

Micah comes back with the tea and sets it on the coffee table. Then he folds himself into the armchair, legs over the side, and looks at the two of us on the couch like he’s trying not to look satisfied.