Page 32

“That’s acceptable,” she says, radiating satisfaction. “And you will not cancel for a literal skeleton.”

“I won’t cancel.”

She nods once, decisive, and disconnects before I can even say goodbye.

I lower the phone and look over at Tamsin. She’s been watching the entire exchange like a particularly compelling nature documentary.

“Did she just schedule you?” Tamsin asks.

“Tuesday,” I sigh.

“Efficient. I like her style.”

“She believes in proactive involvement. I believe in moving to a different continent.”

Tamsin snorts, reaching for another slice. “You get the intensity from her, then.”

I collapse onto the mattress, the cheap springs groaning a protest that feels entirely personal. Beside me, the pizza box sits open like an unglamorous specimen tray. I may claim to run exclusively on caffeine and professional obligation, but right now, my body demands a more basic fuel.

I drag a lukewarm, oil-slicked slice from the cardboard, forcing the mechanics of chewing to pull me out of my head and back into the stifling present. It’s a temporary fix.

The stale, fatty scent of takeout hangs thick in the air, a poor shield against the real problem: the glare of my laptop screen in front of me, where the digital case file remains open, glowing with a mocking, unblinking persistence.

The bones aren’t going anywhere. Neither, it would seem, am I.

Tamsin leaves sometime after midnight, taking the empty pizza boxes and her relentless commentary with her. The room feels cavernous and too quiet the moment the door clicks shut. It isn't a peaceful silence. It’s the kind of heavy, pressurized vacuum that makes my thoughts ten decibels louder than they have any right to be.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and stare at my reflection.

My hair falls all the way to my hip bones. It’s longer than I usually permit, sprawling and unmanageable. I tell myself it’s because I’ve been too busy for maintenance, which is a convenient lie.

A textbook case of systemic neglect. I ignored the warning light, and now the engine is smoking. This is exactly what happens when I stop treating my own body like a managed system and start treating it like a storage locker for carbohydrates. Perpetually too exhausted for anything extra.

I tug at the ends, reach back and haul a heavy section over my shoulder. It’s long enough to be an encumbrance, and long enough to feel like one more thing in my life that I haven’t properly managed.

I rifle through the cluttered depths of my makeup bag until my fingers close around cold steel. Specifically, a pair of surgical scissors that definitely shouldn’t be buried beneath a tube of concealer.

I comb my fingers through the length once, slow and attentive. There is something sedative about the motion. I always cut my own hair—it’s a non-negotiable. I don’t trust a stranger to interpret “just a trim” with the mathematical precision I require, and I certainly don't trust the forced, social-contract small talk of a salon chair. I don’t do well with a loss of control, especially when someone is standing behind me with a blade.

I braid each side into tight, symmetrical ropes, tying off the ends at the exact coordinates I want.

Twenty-four twists on the left. Twenty-four twists on the right. Any discrepancy in the density of the plaits means an asymmetrical weight distribution. It's a microscopic tilt that, on any normal day, my skull would register every single second. I adjust the rubber band on the right by a millimeter, checking the reflection until the phantom imbalance in my chest finally settles. I open the shears, sliding the metal jaw around the origin of the left rope.

I close the scissors in one clean movement.

A heavy chunk of dark, braided hair falls into the porcelain sink with a soft thud.

I stare at it. There is a deep, primal satisfaction in removal. In subtraction. In creating a visible, physical change when the rest of my life feels suspended in a state of agonizing inertia.

I lift my hands to the other braid and chop. The blades slice through the fibers, and more of the weight falls away. Hair is a safe variable to manipulate. It regenerates. It doesn’t require accreditation, chain-of-custody forms, or a signature from a supervisor.

I have zero control over when the isotopic analysis will be finalized. I can’t control what being back in this zip code stirs up in my chest, or why the air here feels so thick with old, discarded versions of myself that I can’t quite fill my lungs.

But I control this.

I lean in closer to the mirror, studying the stark white line of my scalp. The cut around my shoulders is blunt and a little uneven. It isn’t perfect—I’m not aiming for a masterpiece—but once I style it tomorrow, the flaws will be insignificant.

I think, briefly, about the way Baryn looked at me in the parking lot—the heavy, unblinking intensity in his eyes that made my pulse stutter before I could calculate a response. A sudden, traitorous heat crawls up my neck again, a feeling of raw attraction that threatens to destabilize my focus. I immediately hack another inch off in retaliation.