The living room looks like a disaster zone. Pillows are scattered. Lamps are knocked over. It looks like a bomb went off in a linen factory.
Boone is sitting on the sofa, his head in his hands. Knox is leaning against the fireplace, staring into the cold, empty grate. We’re all wearing sweatpants. We’re all wrecked.
“Your phone,” I say to Boone.
His phone is vibrating on the coffee table, buzzing against the wood.
He groans. He picks it up, squinting at the screen. “It’s Dot.” He swipes to answer. “Hello?”
I watch his face as he listens. His expression shifts from exhaustion to surprise.
“Okay. Okay. Yeah. We’re all here. We’re... we’re alive.” He listens for a few more minutes, nodding. “Okay. We’ll come out.”
He hangs up. He looks at us.
“The Matriarchs,” he says. “They’re on the porch. They dropped off food. They said Saramaria was asleep and they didn’t want to wake her.”
“Food?” Knox asks, his stomach audibly growling. “I’m starving.”
“Coolers,” Boone says. “Hattie brought chili. Pearl brought leftovers from the hoedown. They left them on the porch.”
We stand up. We move like zombies, stiff and sore, toward the front door. We haven’t been outside in four days. We haven’t seen the sun.
Boone opens the door.
The air outside is crisp, cool. The rain has finally stopped. The sky is a brilliant, painful blue.
There are three large coolers sitting on the porch.
Saramaria is curled up on the swinging bench. She’s wearing one of Boone’s flannel shirts, the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. She’s staring at the coolers.
She looks up when we step out. Her eyes are red-rimmed. Her face is pale, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest tighten.
“Hey,” she says softly.
We move toward her. We surround her. It’s instinct now. We form a protective circle.
“They brought food,” Knox says, reaching for the nearest cooler. He pops the lid. Inside, containers of chili, cornbread, fried chicken, and Hattie’s cinnamon rolls.
“And cookies,” I say, pointing to a smaller box. “Pearl’s famous oatmeal raisin.”
Saramaria looks at the food. Then she looks at the porch. At the mud on the floorboards. At the leaves stuck to the screens.
And she bursts into tears.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps, burying her face in her hands. “I’m just... I’m so sorry.”
Knox freezes, a container of chicken in his hand. “For what?”
“For everything,” she says. “For this mess. For... for the last four days. For taking over your house. For... for needing you like that. I feel so disordered. My brain feels... broken. I feel like I’ve lost control of everything.”
She looks down at herself, at the oversized shirt, at her bare feet. “I hate feeling like this. I hate feeling... dysphoric. Like I’m disconnected from reality. Like nothing makes sense.”
I sit down on the step beside her. Boone leans against the post. Knox sets the food down and crouches in front of her.
“What do you mean?” I ask gently.
“I have OCD,” she says, wiping her eyes. “Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I’ve managed it for years. With rules. With lists. With control.” She takes a shaky breath. “I took medication for a long time, and it helped quiet the noise in my head. I used it for a while, but when I started studying for the bar exam, I stopped taking it. I didn’t want the drowsiness. I needed to be sharp. And I was fine. I was balanced. The law gave me structure. It gave me order.”
