Page 6

“Mm.”

“I think something’s living in the bathroom ceiling.”

“Probably,” he said without inflection. “We had an opossum once. Could be him again.”

“Um, that’s…cool.” I shuddered, imagining an angry opossum plummeting through the ceiling tile directly onto my face while I was sitting on a toilet. Though I guess there were ways I could sink lower in life.

He scribbled a number in a box, his attention still glued to the page.

I set my cold brew and chip bag on the counter, and at last, his gaze flicked up—then caught, holding on me. He skimmed my messy hair that I’d had in the same bun for days, my travel-stained sweatshirt, and the sad half slouch of my entire body.

“You look like you’re on the verge of a full mental collapse,” he said casually. Like this was his version of “how can I help you?”

“Excuse me?” Strangers didn’t usually judge me out loud, and I was fairly certain I didn’t like it when they did.

He shrugged, ringing up my items. “If I had to bet whether you were running away from something or just slowly crumbling under the weight of existence…I’d go with both.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

The register beeped weakly, as if it were embarrassed to be in the vicinity of this conversation.

“That’ll be six ninety-eight,” he added.

I fished a ten out of my pocket and handed it over. “You really know how to charm the customers.”

He gave me back my change with another shrug. “I call it how I see it.”

“Have you considered being slightly less hostile toward the paying public?”

“Have you considered getting more sleep and less caffeine?”

“I’ll take that as a no,” I muttered, wondering what he would do if I threw the sriracha chips at him.

He wasn’t wrong, though. I’d barely slept for days. Weeks, months…years.

I turned toward the door, cradling my snacks like they were the only things holding me together.

“Hey,” he called after me, and against my better judgment, I stopped.

He didn’t smile. He just offered, “It gets better. Or it gets weirder. Either way, you keep going. Right?”

He dipped his head, a small, worn-out nod that felt like his version of a lifeline, one you only give when you know what it’s like not to have one.

“Right,” I managed, swallowing around the ache in my throat. “That’s good advice.”

I pushed out the door, blinking against the late afternoon light. The air smelled of sun-warmed asphalt and gasoline, and for a moment I simply stood there, keys in one hand, can and chips in the other, letting myself breathe.

Then I opened the door to my Prius, slid behind the wheel, and merged back onto the empty road…as if I weren’t steadily fraying at every edge I had left.

As if I still remembered how to want a life on the other side of this.

As if some part of me hadn’t stayed behind that night.

The silence hit harder than I expected.

The sky was turning the color of old bruises. Purple and yellow and a kind of sickly green, like it couldn’t decide what mood it was in. I could empathize with that feeling.