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“I’m just a little hot.” I gather my sweat-slicked hair into a ponytail and then drop it when I realize I don’t have a spare elastic on my wrist. “I think I better go. Thank you for the dress.”

I shove my feet back into my shoes and gather my jeans and blouse in my hands, not bothering to change.

I need to get out of this store.

I need air.

“You should come out with us tonight if your thing ends early,” Koko calls after me. “Text me! And good luck!”

• • •

I make it through dinner (and what is in fact a cardboard check ceremony) and when I finally get back home, I go straight to bed with a belly full of pierogies and a head full of questions—none of them answered. When I wake on Saturday morning, it’s a little after eight. The sun is streaming through my bedroom window, leaving little square patterns on my blue-and-green-striped bedspread.

I lie there, letting my brain shift from its state of rest to an active consciousness, and as it does, memories of yesterday flood my thoughts.

I still don’t know what happened with that jacket. The most obvious explanations just don’t seem probable. I don’t, as a rule, do drugs. I haven’t been diagnosed with any sort of mental health disorder, nor have I experienced any symptoms that make me suspect I may be suffering from one gone undiagnosed. Other than last night, I usually sleep well—at least well enough to rule out sleep deprivation, and as far as I know, I’m not sick. I lift my palm to my forehead as if to prove that fact to myself. I don’t feel warm.

The only thing left is stress.

Or trauma? a little voice inside my head whispers.

Yes, I lost my mom—my only parent—when I was sixteen and then my guardian and only living relative a few years later. I could see how someone might perceive these events as traumatizing, but I’ve been coping just fine. I’m good.

I probably just need to exercise more—maybe finally start meditating.

Yes, I think. That’s it. I’m just more stressed than usual.

I am moving overseas in just over three months to earn a very intensive PhD, which will very much determine my future in a very competitive field. On top of that, a virtual stranger is about to move in with me. It’s difficult to share a space with another human, let alone one you’ve never met. My brain is obviously telling me I need to take better care of myself.

I pad to the kitchen, deciding my first step in taking care of my mental health is to have a nice, hot cup of coffee. However, as I open the red-and-black canister, I remember I finished the last of it the day before. I throw on my sweatpants and head to the little doughnut shop on the corner that makes their coffee strong and dark.

As I step out of my apartment onto the tiny landing, I stop.

The hallway outside my front door isn’t big. It’s about enough for a six-foot man to lie down comfortably and roll over once before falling down the stairs (as per my ex-situationship Lucca on a night he came over drunk and forgot I was out of town at a convention).

There are two doors: mine and my neighbor Harmony’s, and a sizable window, which makes the space seem larger and airier than the floor plan.

What has stopped me this morning is the three large duffel bags and a black guitar case. They are sitting, in a neatly stacked pile, just to the left of my door. On the very top is a note.

I bend down to pick it up. It looks like a lined page torn out of a notebook. The writing is in blue pen and sloppy.

Hey Annalise,

I got in this morning earlier than planned. Didn’t want to wake you before nine. I’ve gone in search of some breakfast. Will be back in a bit. Look forward to meeting you.

—Mackenzie

It had taken me months to admit I needed a roommate. My uncle’s life insurance had paid off what remained of the mortgage on the two-bedroom, which, as his sole heir, I inherited fully, but there are still bills to pay and annual property taxes. I could probably have made it work if I’d continued working at the lab. However, my tuition for my doctorate plus all of the expenses of living in Liverpool, UK, for the two years would mean I’d have to sell the place or sublet.

I’ve lost too much to let go of one of the few places with happy memories, so I put an ad online for a roommate who would live with me for the next three and a half months and then take care of the place for the two years while I’m in Liverpool. After about fifty replies (half of them making me rethink my idea completely), I found Mackenzie—a small-town girl moving to the big city to follow her dream of becoming a musician. We haven’t met in person yet, but our email exchanges have been pleasant. She answered my emails promptly, in full, grammatically correct sentences. My light internet stalking turned up no red flags other than she posts a lot of cat pics and plays the tuba. Those reservations were calmed by her near-perfect credit score and confirmation that no cat would be making the move to Toronto.

I’m not one to typically rely on my instincts, but as I set the note down, I can’t help but feel proud of mine. Not wanting to wake me up early on a Saturday morning—that’s courteous roommate behavior.

I slip back inside my apartment and grab the spare set of keys I had made in anticipation of Mackenzie’s arrival before returning to the landing, where I knock softly on Harmony’s door. I, too, am a courteous person, but I know for a fact that Harmony is an early bird who gets up for a six a.m. yoga class.

After a few moments, I hear the soft shuffle of feet on hardwood, and the door opens. Harmony is still in her yoga wear: her loose patterned pants and tight black tank top show off a set of toned, tanned arms. Her long gray hair is in a thick braid that reaches past her breasts. Her eyes wrinkle as she smiles at me. “Good morning, Annalise. How are you doing, chickpea?” Her eyes search my face as if they’re looking for something.

She started doing this shortly after my uncle passed away, and whatever she is looking for, I don’t think she has found it yet.