I roll to my side, facing the pillows. The scent leaks through—marshmallows and wet hair and something metal underneath, like storm rails. I breathe it in until it hurts, then force myself to stop.
“How old are you?” I ask.
Silence.
Long enough that I think she’s gone to sleep. Long enough that my jaw tightens. Then the mattress shifts. Fabric whispers.
“Twenty-one.”
“You lie badly.”
“I’m not lying,” she says. “I am twenty-one.”
“I turned thirty-two in December.”
She doesn’t respond.
I don’t know why I said it. I don’t do that—offer information unprompted. The dark makes me careless.
“Who taught you how to shoot?” I ask.
“None of your business.”
“You shoot like you’re in the game.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” she says.
Too fast.
I smile to myself.She’s lying.
Silence settles again. Thicker now. Heavier.
“Were you always like this?” she asks finally.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re waiting for something bad to happen.”
I don’t hesitate. “I’m not waiting. I know it’s coming.”
“That’s the life,” I add.
She goes quiet.
“Do you sleep?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Who’s the liar now?”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “I rest.”
The room breathes. The building hums. Somewhere outside, a siren wails and fades. I hear her inhale. Slow. Measured.
“So,” she says, “do you ever dream?”
The question hits wrong. Sharp. Uninvited. I stare harder at the pillows like it might answer for me. I haven’t dreamed since I was sixteen. Not really. Everything after that got buried. Flattened. Turned into noise. I shove the thought away.
