“Nighttime, sleep, sleep,” he chirped in his usual robotic tone.
Daniel’s voice—soft and warm—broke through the noise in my head. “Mochi,” he said. “Let’s give your mom some rest, yeah?” He reached up beside me, palm out. Mochi waddled onto his hand without fuss, and Daniel placed him gently in his cage.
“Nighttime, time to sleep,” Mochi said once more as Daniel draped a blanket over the cage.
He turned to me. “Do you feel like going to bed?”
I shook my head.
“I could grab blankets and pillows and set them up on the couch. Leave the TV on all night?” He shrugged. “It always helps me when I can’t sleep.”
I nodded.
He disappeared into the bedroom and returned with arms full of bedding. I watched as he laid everything out on the massive designer couch. His movements slowed as the weight of everything caught up with him. He shook his head, muttering under his breath.
“Fucking Christ,” he said. “I still can’t believe someone shot Cynthia.”
He was right. It was unthinkable. It made no sense.
I was exhausted but also terrified of closing my eyes. What if I saw it all over again? What if it replayed in slow motion?
And then it did anyway. The moment I blinked, Cynthia’s face flashed in front of me. Her eyes, wide and lifeless. Blood and bone sprayed from the side of her head.
My head dropped into my hands.
“Emily.”
I shook it slowly, then harder.
“Emily!”
Daniel rushed over and pulled me into his arms. It was like his body already knew how to hold mine when it broke.
“She’s dead, Daniel!” I sobbed.
“I know.”
“Someone shot her in the freaking face!” The words erupted from me like an explosion. Tears finally came, hot and unstoppable, like a dam had given way.
“I know, hon. I know.” When my knees gave out, he sank down with me, holding me as I collapsed. We knelt there together, tangled and trembling, as I cried into his shoulder for what felt like forever.
We ended up sleeping on the couch. Or trying to. Reality shows buzzed in the background. Someone laughed on screen—too bright, too fake, too wrong for this moment. I drifted in and out of sleep, torn between nightmares and memories, none of them merciful or kind.
I was up by 2 a.m., too scared to try to sleep again. Every time I closed my eyes, Cynthia’s face waited for me.
By seven, the sky had started to bleed into the apartment. The first hints of sunrise painted the walls in burnt orange and soft red, the in-between hue of night giving way to morning.
Curled on the couch, I stared through the TV.
“Would you like some coffee?” Daniel asked.
I nodded.
“I don’t think I want to go to work today,” I said.
“Oh, God, no, of course not,” he said. “You don’t ever have to go back there.”
I heard the soft clink of mugs in the kitchen. The hiss of the machine. He came back and handed a mug of coffee to me. Steam curled into the quiet space between us as he sat next to me on the couch. He looked calm but not quite rested.
