Me: Thank you
Back to the group chat.
Otty: All right, I’m out.
Me: Did you at least try to call him?
Otty: No! Are you nuts? It’s three in the morning.
Hannah: Why don’t you go over there, Rae?
Me: Glossing over the whole three in the morning thing, are we?
Me: I’ve been drinking.
Hannah: Oh, well, good girl. For not driving.
I flick through the apps on my phone to check in on Dad’s heart on the vitals app.
Me: Heart rate looks normal.
Hannah: Also, he’s an adult.
There’s a long pause while probably both of us fall into picturing some version of Dad that is in no way adultlike. Banana hunts, kitchen dance parties, air guitar contests.
Hannah: Dad is an adult.
Me: Right.
Hannah: He’s alive.
Me:
Hannah: He’s fine. Leave it.
Hannah: Night, beeshes.
Me: Night.
When I turn to ask Sam if she can drive us out there, she’s dead to the world, snoring lightly beside me. Oh well.
I carefully get up and wobble around, turning off the million little lamps and string lights. I grab an extra blanket, clean my teeth without turning the electric brush on, pee, and drink a massive glass of water.
My eyes land on the tiny flogger. Maybe I’ll do the whole building. A minuscule world in which I’m the one who calls the shots, not Grant Bowman or the General or anyone else. A universe where I can play out the scenes inside my head instead of worrying about everyone else all the time. I like that idea. A lot.
As I turn to get into bed, my eyes land on Sam’s bag, which has fallen over, half its contents dumped out on my floor. When I bend to pick it all up and stuff it back in, I pause at the sight of a laptop. It looks an awful lot like the ones we have at work. Weird, right? We’re not allowed to take those home, as per Grant’s new office safety protocols.
Preoccupied now, I get into my bed, turn over, and look at Sam, whose sleep position is as decorous as always, body perfectly straight, hands folded at her chest, face placid. I’ll ask her tomorrow. Maybe she got permission. Maybe it was an emergency, and she had to take the computer home to get something done. And maybe that is why she was late meeting me tonight—a subject we never got around to discussing.
Hours later, I wake up to find my bed empty. There’s a sickly morning light coming in the window and absolutely no sound but the chattering of a few birds.
“Sam?” I whisper-shout.
Nothing.
I look around, grab my phone, and stare at it blearily for a few seconds before I can focus on a text notification.
Sam: You are the best. I love you. See you Monday.
