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Molly blinked, looking at the bed from the perspective of someone who hadn’t spent most of the day camped out in it.

“Oh,” she said softly.

The bed was covered, quite literally covered, in books and notes to the point that it might have been more paper by weight than anything else. Once Molly had found a stack of notebooks in her bedside table, she’d taken her research experience analog. It wasn’t quite the same as a trusty three-by-five notecard and the dopamine hit of a quiz-flip-correct answer, but the physicality of seeing everything she was trying to catalogue had come close.

And, with retrospect, it also looked a touch frenzied.

When she met Alannah’s eyes, the soft concern she found there crumbled Molly’s composure.

“I’m just—” she tried, voice constricting. She tried again. “It’s a lot.”

Alannah nodded, moved the pan of tiramisu, and scooted to sit next to Molly, enveloping her in a hug.

Molly sank against her shoulder, too tired to cry, but on the verge of it all the same. “It’s so much,” she said. “All the stuff I missed and all the—all the me I missed. I can learn all the stuff that happened but—” Her stomach dropped, anxiety blooming hot in her chest. “I don’t know how to learn the me part. I literally have no idea who I am anymore.”

Alannah squeezed her shoulders gently, patting and shushing as Molly sniffled, fighting off her sadness. “I’m not sure what to say, Molly. I can’t even begin to imagine what that’s like. But I think right now, more than anything, you’re someone with way too much to process. You need time, but you’ll sort it out. I know you will. And you need some tiramisu.”

Molly withheld the sad little wail clogging up her throat. She nodded. “I do.”

“I’ll get the forks.”

Wiping her tears, Molly listened as Alannah ventured out into the rest of the apartment in search of cutlery. She chose not to listen in on the hushed voices in the kitchen. She had no desire to know what Alannah and Bishop had to say to each other. That was one thing too many, and Molly was barely managing one thing at a time.

“Where are you going?” Bishop asked.

Molly paused. It wasn’t as if she’d expected him not to inquire about her attempted exit. But she’d certainly hoped.

Before she could respond, he lifted his hands.

“I’m not trying to be your jailor. But I saw Alannah leave, and you’re not really supposed to be left alone. Since you’re not clear to drive yet, if you want to go somewhere, I’ll take you. Just tell me where.”

“I’m only going outside. I’m calling my dad.”

“Oh.”

“What does that mean?” His posture remained stiff against that blue monstrosity of a sofa she still couldn’t believe she’d allowed into her home.

Molly glanced at the kitchen and saw zero evidence of Bishop’s cooking efforts from barely two hours earlier. Even the smell of bubbling marinara seemed to have dissipated, replaced by an astringent, aggressive cleanliness.

“It’s nothing,” Bishop said, tone stiff. “I told Rich we’d have a call when you were out of the hospital. I didn’t realize you already planned it.”

“We? As in the three of us?” She hadn’t meant to sound so openly shocked.

With a frown, Bishop said, “Clearly not.”

Luckily, he said nothing else, and so she turned and slipped out the door.

She desperately wanted fresh air—even muggy, midsummer air—to help her feel a little less trapped. After a few minutes of wandering, she found a bench next to the community dog run. It was positioned too close to both the building and the dumpsters, judging by the background noise and sulfurous trash smells, but she sat anyway and dialed her dad.

“Hi, honey,” he said, picking up on the first ring.

And it was the strangest thing: at the sound of his gruff, familiar voice, Molly broke into tears for what felt like the millionth time in a matter of days.

She tried muffling the phone, but he clearly heard her distress. His stilted attempts at comfort floated across a continent to her.

“It’s okay sweetheart. You’re okay.” It was some of his best work, truth be told.

“Hi, Dad,” she finally managed.