On the way there, Oakley's phone buzzed with a text from Ellisa—something bubbly about how much fun she'd had.
Oakley's head was a snarl of string. She didn't answer. She set the phone face down and fixed on the sky outside the cab window until a long breath finally left her.
By the time she reached the hospital, Devin Barron was pacing the corridor, a phone to his ear, issuing clipped instructions with the vague authority of a man who liked to be the center of gravity. His belly arrived half a step before the rest of him.
He spotted Oakley, signed off with a brief "Call you back," and turned. "You're here?"
"Mhm." Oakley had run the last block. Her chest rose and fell too fast; she'd resorted to breathing through her mouth.
"Did something happen today?" he asked.
"We… argued," Oakley said, then rushed, "How is she?"
"Sedated. Sleeping." Devin sounded almost placid. "I was about to ring you. I've got to go—stay with her."
Oakley nodded, dazed. "Okay."
When he'd gone, she eased the door inward and slipped into the hush.
Grace lay perfectly still beneath a thin blanket. Even swaddled, vulnerability leaked out of her like heat from a banked fire.
Oakley sat on the hard stool by the bed, hands folded on her knees. Her eyes widened, stung, and her fingers tightened into themselves until even her toes were tense inside her shoes.
She stayed like that for an hour, unmoving, until her mother's face blooming on her screen forced her to step into the hall with her earbuds and a lowered voice.
Inside, Grace drifted.
In her dream, she walked barefoot through a country of thorns until pain became a kind of silence. At a crossroads she met a creature from a children's book—long and blue, like the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland.
"Hurting?" it asked. "Let me wrap you in silk. You'll be a chrysalis. When you break free, a butterfly. New life."
She was too tired. "I don't need wings," she said. "The ground is needles. I can't sleep on it. Could I… could I sleep in the cocoon awhile? Will it stop hurting when I wake?"
"Yes," said the creature, smiling.
She agreed and watched as the silk wound round and round, soft as a lullaby. But as she settled her mind to peace, the creature changed—legs multiplied, the body hardened—no caterpillar now, but a huge spider lifting her toward its black mouth.
"Foolish human," it laughed. "Tricked you. I'll eat your soul."
To watch yourself being carried to the dark, to be unable to stop it—every nerve coiled and thrummed.
Grace's fingertip twitched. She snapped her eyes open and stared at the ceiling until the world stitched itself back into place. After a while, she closed her eyes again and regulated her breath.
What a vicious little dream. Who dreams like that?
She does.
She pushed up halfway and sat with her head bowed, palm pressed to her brow. Her mind was numb in a familiar way, like a blocked sink that won't drain. Emotion there, but faint; irritation like a computer that's just completed a level and then suddenly reboots—were the files saved, or lost?
The door opened with a small scritch of rubber on tile.
"You're awake?"
Oakley's voice. Soft. Sweet. Familiar enough to ripple the air.
Grace remembered that voice in the dark one night whispering, Don't be so hard on yourself. Stop putting everyone first. Learn to love what you love; reach for it.
Clouds, then. She'd lain on clouds. Unreal, but the easiest thing to fall through.
And that same voice today had risen, sharp as a thrown stone, calling her a monster between the lines.
Oakley waited. When silence kept on, she padded in and stood at the bedside. She took in the narrow slope of Grace's shoulder and said, very quietly, "I'm sorry."
She had more to say but didn't trust herself not to make it worse. She held her tongue.
Grace shook her head—no words; none that would come out right.
After a while Oakley tried again, skirting the flight home. "Should I change our tickets?"
Grace didn't answer at once. Then she folded back the blanket and sat up. "What time is it?"
"Five," Oakley said, checking her watch. "A little after."
"After five," Grace murmured. "The flight's at seven. We'll make it. No change."
She reached for her clothes.
Oakley, still watching, remembered she shouldn't stare while Grace dressed and dropped her gaze. When she heard the zip of boot leather, she looked up again.
"You're sure?" she asked. "Isn't it… too much?"
"I'm fine," Grace said. "No major thing. No surgery."
She disliked altering plans once they'd set. Variance made her skin prickle. She smoothed her sleeves, glanced at the blister-pack prescriptions on the nightstand, and slid them into her pocket.
"Let's go," she said. "Or we will cut it close."
"…Okay." Oakley fell into step.
They moved through a cooled corridor that exaggerated footsteps. Oakley stayed close, and yet everything felt farther away, as if the air had thickened between them. After what had happened, the distance had learned a new, longer measure.
Because Grace wanted to stop at the front kiosk, they left through the main doors. A cart waited near the curb, piled with local snacks—nostalgia in cellophane.
Oakley slowed. "Grace."
"Mhm?" Grace turned back to her.
Oakley pointed at the cart. "I don't think I've seen these before. I'm curious. Can we look? Maybe buy a few?"
Grace nodded. "Okay." The word was even, almost neutral.
Oakley pressed her lips together. There it was again—the new temperature. The old Grace would have said more than just "okay."
She breathed out and went to choose. Not knowing what was what, she took one of everything.
The old man bagged them all. Oakley thanked him and returned to Grace's side.
Still that thin quiet. Oakley dug out a pack and tried to tear it open. The serrated edge did nothing. After a small, private struggle, she lifted it to her teeth.
Grace saw, sighed, and held out her hand. "Give it here."
Oakley blinked, dutiful as a schoolgirl, and placed the packet in her palm.
Grace bent her head and split the plastic in one clean motion. Oakley's eyes, freed from the problem of the wrapper, climbed the length of Grace's fingers, up her wrist, to her face.
A moment later Grace returned the opened packet. "Here."
"Thanks." Oakley fished out a glossy black plum candy and popped it onto her tongue—and immediately winced, eyes squeezed shut, shoulders hunching against the sour. Her fists made tiny knots; her whole body shivered like a kid who couldn't help playing even when the game stung.
It was… endearing.
Grace turned away before the softness could hook her and drew a slow breath. "We should go."
"Mm." Oakley matched her stride, but every step felt a little unsteady, like walking on memory foam.
Back at the Barron house they said brief goodbyes, took their bags, and left for the airport.
Check-in, baggage drop, security—done on muscle memory. They grabbed a quick bowl of noodles at a counter joint. Maybe Grace was depleted, maybe the noodles were simply bad; either way she ate almost nothing. Before, after—no visible difference in the bowl.
She set down her chopsticks.
"You're done?" Oakley asked.
"I'm not hungry," Grace said, taking out her medication and studying the label, lashes dipping. She loosened the foil, pushed out a pill, and rested it on her tongue.
She chased it with water and stared at the table as if the wood might tell her what came next. She looked weak around the edges, an outline waiting to be colored back in.
"What is it?" Oakley asked, worry rising like a tide.
Grace screwed the cap tight and shook her head. "Just… emptying my head for a minute."
"Oh." Oakley heard the boundary and closed her mouth.
They made for the gate. On board, Grace asked the flight attendant for a blanket, tipped her seat back, and closed her eyes. Today had been too much on top of too many years like it; fatigue had pooled in her bones.
Oakley let her sleep and listened to music that didn't take.
When they finally collected their bags at Skylark, it was already ten. By the time they reached the house, the clock was edging toward eleven.
At the bedroom hallway, Grace glanced at her. "Long day. Wash up and rest. Good night."
Everything about her—tone, posture, the precise angle of her chin—was perfectly polite. Perfectly distant.
Panic nipped at Oakley, small teeth, then backed off. She nodded. "Good night."
Grace rolled her suitcase into her room and closed the door with a soft click.
Oakley did the same, then let herself fall back on the bed and stare up at the white ceiling, hands folded at her stomach, thoughts crashing around inside her like birds against glass.
Since the hospital, Grace had been the picture of composure—more than ever. The calmer she was, the more Oakley's unease grew. Grace had once been guarded but talkative with her. Now the replies were shaved down to the minimum. If not necessary, not said.
It felt like two dogs who'd once bumped noses, recognized each other's scent, and agreed to be companions—only to wake the next morning with all pheromones scrubbed from the air.
Too far. Too cold. The drop was hard to absorb.
Her phone rumbled. Ellisa again.
"Busy?" the message read.
Oakley stared. She hadn't answered earlier. And now—Grace's cautions rang truer. Perhaps Oakley did need a little more guardrail.
After thinking it through, she typed: "Yeah. I'll be pretty busy for a while."
Which was a way of saying: less talking, less often.
She set the phone aside, drifted to the little sofa, and peeled a neglected orange. She ate slice after slice without tasting a thing.
In the other room, Grace kneeled by her suitcase, unpacked methodically, placed each thing where it belonged, and sat on the bed to think.
She didn't know how much time passed before she stood, decided, and opened her door.
She nearly collided with Oakley coming down the hall.
They stopped. The air between them pressed flat, and then, at once, fluttered.
Grace spoke first. "Oakley, I have something to say."
Oakley's brows lifted. "Yeah?"