Seven Minutes

Bright red and blue lights pulse behind my eyelids. The smell of smoke claws at my throat. I try to inhale—nothing. Pressure builds in my chest, blood hammering against my skull. I am upside down. I can't open my eyes. I reach forward and a seatbelt locks me in. My lungs scream. My brain screams. The world around me fades to static.

Then a signal breaks through. A voice?

"Hey!" An unfamiliar voice echoes in my head. "We gotta get you out of here before—" The voice cuts through the static, clear and steady. Each word connects like a symphony resolving into one clean harmony. For just a moment, time ceases to exist in the panic, and I know I am safe.

I wake with a start at my desk, sitting straight up. Warm golden light flows in from the window to my left. I exhale, grateful that it was just a dream. Time to execute my startup program. I fumble across the desk, a blur of visual noise, until my fingers find my glasses.

I glance down at my body as I boot up. All system checks have passed. My blue T-shirt and jeans—nothing flashy—are covered in wrinkles from sleeping at my desk.

I'm no stranger to nightmares, but as an adult, they hit differently. Abstract monsters became public embarrassments, and shadows under the bed grew quieter—harder to debug. Nothing I can't process through, though. Simple garbage collection will do the trick.

I save the file in my mental archive:

I'll extract the root cause later, though the cursor in my mind blinks longer than usual before closing. People draw meaning from dreams. Someone might interpret my inability to move as a signal that I am stuck in motion. I file this under nonsense. Dreams are merely our subconscious trying to create meaning from abstract shapes in our mind during REM sleep.

I glance at the monitors. Lines of unfinished code sprawl across all three screens, cluttered and bloated. I must have passed out while coding my app last night. Scan mode initiated—looking for any bugs that jump out before they hit GitHub.

I straighten my back, letting out a moan as I do. My gold watch catches the sunlight and reflects into my eyes, blinding me for a moment. I bring my wrist up and glance at the time: 11:45 AM.

I gaze around my studio apartment—if I can even call it that. The card table doubles as a dining table, shoved into a corner where one chair blocks the fridge from fully opening. My bed juts out behind my desk. Everything touches everything. Minimal viable living space.

I stand up and wander over to the window, having to lean over my bed to glance out at the sprawling cityscape below me. Cars race through the streets, each one following the steady flow of traffic. Each one entering the queue of my view and exiting as expected. FIFO.

The phone in my pocket buzzes. I reach for it without looking away from the window, let my gaze flick to the screen. 12:47 PM. I stare at the numbers as though they are lying to me. My wrist raises to match—watch says 11:45 AM. Phone says 12:47 PM. The discrepancy lodges somewhere it shouldn't.

My phone screen flickers for a second—like it forgot what being idle meant. Must have been an involuntary blink.

With the phone still in hand, I tap the face of the watch a few times. I shake my head, knowing that I will take it back to Dad's house this weekend and we will fix it together. Eighty-three years of consistent ticking, and it is silent now.

The smell of oil hits my nose—not the acrid smoke from the nightmare. I am recalling a different file. Dad sits across from me, tongue poking out as he fiddles with tools too small for his hands. He grunts.

"Time only looks simple from far away," he mutters, as if it should mean more than it does.

Each movement is precisely timed and measured—mechanical in the way that only comes from decades of practice.

My phone buzzes again.

It is a text from my sister, Mara. I miss you, kid. I smile. Emotions.exe booted. Wait. Scratch that. Shutting down Emotions.exe. It is too early in the startup program to process emotions. I file the text away into a folder called "sister who cares more about her brother than he does about his own app." She is five years younger than me and still is the one to call me kid. I put the phone back into my pocket, and the time finally loads into my mind: 12:47 PM. I'm already late. I rush over to my computer and let my fingers slide over the keyboard. I save my work, set a timer to be able to track how long I'm gone, and lock it all in two efficient keystrokes. I grab a jacket before sprinting out the door.

What did I do last night? The memory file won't load. For some reason, my mind missed the alarm—whatever happened caused data corruption. Twenty-three years of files live in my mind, it isn't a surprise that one would become corrupted. I'll run diagnostics later. I'm already late.

The air outside is chilly, but the sunlight brings a distant warmth. The leaves are bright red and orange—fall came early this year. Though statistically insignificant, the early fall registers differently in my database—a seasonal variable without a clear definition. I file it under "weird weather" for now.

I run route optimization and mark it as a background task. I have to dodge past one person so buried in their phone that they don't even notice the near collision. Processing. Collision number one avoided. Every variable is nearly dealt with, every conditional loop nearly closed when—

Error: var coffeeShopDoor variable not found. The door swings open in front of me and out walks an unaccounted-for variable. Processing: coffee in right hand, Polaroid left hand, satchel around shoulder, and an unparsable glow around him. Without the chance to stop, I crash into him—we go down together, his purple coffee spills across the pavement.

Burning rubber. That's the first thing I notice. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Something is wrong. My mouth is dry, as though I've been chewing on cotton my entire life. I try to swallow, but my throat closes and causes me to cough. Pain erupts across my back. Wet pavement underneath me.

A few raindrops fall on my face. I think it's rain. It's the only remotely bearable sensation. My hands grip at the asphalt as though clawing at the ground will transfer the pain from my body to it.

My face is numb. It reminds me of the time that Konnor punched me in the face and called me a fag. He didn't know how hard that word would hit. He couldn't have. I egged him on. I deserved it. At the time the punch hurt more than the actual word. This time, I wish the word hurt more because whatever I am feeling right now is unbearable.

I try to pry my eyes open, but they remain glued shut. The sound of sirens fades in and out of my ears, as though they're getting closer and farther away.

"Hey!" a young man's voice shouts. I can't tell if it's far off or right next to me. I try to groan, but it comes out as a squeak. "We have a kid over here." The voice cracks around the edges. This time it's louder, and I know he's kneeling right beside me.

"Can you tell me your name?" The voice floats into my head and dances around for a moment.

"Hey, hey, hey," he says again, and I feel his hand on my face. I don't feel the warmth of it, just the pressure against my forehead. My left eyelid is pried open, and a bright white light blinds me. Then the same thing happens with my other eye. Fuck off, I think. As if lying here in the most pain possible isn't bad enough, now my eyes are screaming at me too.

"No going to sleep just yet," the voice says. He then shouts something off to someone else, but I can't tell what he says. Static creeps into my mind. My body goes numb.

"Stay with me just a little bit longer," he pleads, but this time it isn't his voice—it's Jude's. It doesn't start as Jude; it morphs. Like the words get warped in the air between his mouth and my ears. The voice says a little bit longer with his signature micropauses between each word. Sharp. Staccato. Piercing. If it would get Jude's haunting voice out of my head, I'd take the pain back in a heartbeat. The words bounce around my skull as I let out a yell—guttural, animalistic, something deeper than who I am.

I wake myself up to my own screaming. Cold sweat trickles down my back. The air mattress has deflated enough that my ass is on the hardwood. I shake my head, hair whipping back and forth by my eyes. I stretch my neck.

My first night in Boston was less eventful than the nightmare I just had. I thought the big city would feel like I was on top of the world, like I'd walk off the plane and then bang! My entire life would be different. People would welcome me into the city like some kind of goddamn royalty. Instead, I got a passive-aggressive taxi driver and a rainy day.

This isn't my first time in a new city, but my brain always tricks me into thinking this one will be different. Every time, I am disappointed. Rolling over, I fall off the air mattress onto the floor. I take in the room and the full boxes that I need to unpack later today. They're all stacked like towers that echo the cityscape that surrounds the apartment.

I slept in last night's clothes because I couldn't be bothered to unpack. At least, I think I did. Blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and a red-and-black checkered flannel. Don't actually remember falling asleep, now that I think about it. Strange. Why can't I remember last night? The thought tugs at my mind before I give up.

My gaze drifts to a box sitting alone, my Polaroid on top of it. I smile. Today I'll capture the city and hold it still. With so many moments fleeing from me, photographs are the only traps I know.

I grab my phone from the floor and rip the charging cable out of the bottom of it. My younger cousin, Ash, has sent me a text. You doing alright? For a sixteen-year-old with the emotional intelligence of someone three times his age, he always knows when to check on people. Even at twenty-two, I don't think I've caught up to him. I always respond the same way to his "check-in" texts: a simple Yeah. Ash knows that's my way of saying I love you, but I am not one for that lovey-dovey stuff. He keeps his check-ins consistent. More frequent when I land somewhere new, tapering off as I settle in. Then I'm gone again, and the texts start back up.

Ash lives back at home, in Boise. I glance up at the analog clock on the wall: 11:45 AM. Boise is two hours behind me, so he should be in school by now. I shake my head. Sure, I haven't always been the best influence. It doesn't stop me from telling him to keep his head down and get good grades. I'm banking on him making the next Facebook or iPhone, making millions, and giving me a cut. He's a good kid, even without me hounding him—almost too good. At least better than me.

My phone screams at me, forcing a double take at the clock: 12:35 PM. Either my phone or the clock on the wall is lying to me, and I know which one I trust more. As much as I hate it, the phone's probably right.

Standing up, I wander over to the clock. I don't remember putting it here. Must have come with the apartment, I finally decide. Tapping on the glass causes the hands to shudder. They don't move at all. The fridge hums beside me, rather loudly, I might add. It's where Grandma kept her batteries. I never knew why she did it, but it was just what she did, and so now it's what I do. Well, I would do, if I had already unpacked them.

It's stupid, keeping batteries in the fridge. If anything, they probably will leak radioactive juices into your food. I can't help but keep batteries in there, though. It feels like I'm still holding onto a piece of Grandma if I do—as though stopping might make her disappear from reality.

They say people have two deaths. The first is when they physically die. The second is when their name is spoken for the last time. I am not letting Grandma out so easily. I just need to hold on a little bit longer, not because I need it, but because she does.

Then, the hum of the fridge cuts out. All sound cuts out. No cars, no footsteps above, no heartbeat in my ears. Just…nothing. I stand there, caught in it—like the city forgot to breathe. Then, sound rushes back.

It rushes back so loud. Every single thing seems ten times louder than it was before. The hum of the fridge vibrates in place. The honking of the cars blasts in my ears. I'm disoriented for longer than I'd like to admit.

"You're losing it, Row," I mutter as I move from the clock over to one of the boxes and open it. I pick up a large black sketchbook and turn it over in my hands a couple of times. The pages are worn with time, making them rough around the edges. My finger runs down the side, knowing quite well that I might get a papercut. Just another thing to remember it by, I suppose. I flip open to a random page. It's labeled at the bottom: June 8th, 2021, 3:06 PM. I stare at the picture. I trace the dark pencil marks with my finger. It's of Jude, sitting on a bench somewhere at UNLV.

The memory is a brick smashing through a window in my mind. I try to catch it before the glass shatters, but here I am.

The sun hit his skin in a way I couldn't not sketch. I can still hear the way his words would weave themselves into tapestries—sentences that carried more weight than I could understand. He should have been a poet too. I still hold on to the last photo he took of us. A selfie. He wasn't one for selfies, but he was one for me. I know it's at the back of this sketchbook. I don't dare open to that page, though.

In this sketch he's holding his Polaroid, aiming it off the side of the page and capturing something full of joy. Even though it's just a sketch, I can see the light in his face. He was the boy that made me feel safe, no matter where I was. This was before I told my dad I had dropped out of college and started pursuing art and photography full time.

Jude was always supportive of it. He taught me to love photography and sketching. Holding my hands on the camera as he helped me line up the perfect shot. Chin resting on my shoulder. A soft whisper in my ear.

There was childlike wonder when he picked up a camera.

The sketchbook slams shut. Pulse hammering. The echo of it sounds too loud in the empty room—like I just sealed him inside again. I tell myself it's just paper, graphite, and memory. But my hands still shake. It's dumb shit to get emotional over a sketch from four years ago. I grab the next sketchbook out of the box. This one has plastic wrap still around it. I bought it with the few dollars I had left over after moving from LA.

I am burning through my college fund that Mom and Dad gave me, and am running incredibly low at this point. No one told me dreams and money are inverses—that feeding one starves the other.

I rip the plastic wrap off the sketchbook and grab a pencil from the bottom of the box. I drop onto the air mattress and start sketching. My eyes dart from paper to the clock on the wall and back down. Half of the clock is lit up by the golden sunlight pouring in from the window. My hand moves fast, capturing the texture of the wall behind the clock. It takes shape on the page like it's calling out to me—my pulse syncing with each stroke. I'm an artist. Is that too grand a title? If I'm not an artist, then what am I?

I date the page: September 26th, 2025, 12:41 PM. I set the sketch down on the floor and just stare at the clock for a second, as though it's wanting to say something. Like the ticks that it can't produce have silenced it. I roll my eyes. My mind has this strange tendency to think in these grandiose ways, as though I am fucking Shakespeare or Keats. It was how Jude used to see the world, and it's how I want to see it—even if part of me still thinks it's stupid.

I haul myself to my feet and walk over to one of the other boxes near the window on the far wall. Opening it up, I glance inside. Batteries stack on the side of the box. I grab two double-A batteries, take the clock off the wall, and swap them out. Flip it back over. The hands don't move. I tap the glass a few times—like tapping is CPR and might wake it up. Nothing. I toss it onto the air mattress.

I begin gathering my things from the apartment, putting them into a brown satchel. I throw in a few charcoal pencils and my new sketchbook. I grab Jude's Polaroid. It has a heft to it, heavier than film and plastic should be. There's a small scratch on the side from when it slipped out of my bag between classes—Jude laughed and said he could always get another one. Now it's one of a kind. It can't be replaced, because Jude can't be replaced. I tuck it away and head to the door, pulling my shoulder-length hair into a bun at the crown of my head.

I glance back into the apartment as I stand in the doorway. Am I forgetting something? I'm running through my thoughts as though shaking them might jog something loose. Nothing.

Yesterday. Something surfaces about yesterday, but then it's gone.

The air outside is crisp, leaves crunching under my feet. The city is alive around me. Sunlight pours down but clouds gather on the horizon—I soak it in while I can. Ash warned me the winters here are brutal. Can't be worse than Boise.

A small coffee shop on the corner of the street beckons me to it with a warm glow of fairy lights in the window. Wooden Coffee seems like a cute enough name. I've worked at a thousand of these coffee shops before. They all have similar names: Alchemist Coffee, Amber Coffee, Luke's Lucky Coffee.

The glass door forces me to notice the smirk on my face, one that shouldn't be there but is anyway. People say that I have resting smirk face. They're not wrong. My green eyes are lit up, almost like how the moon reflects the light of the sun. I tighten the bun on my head. You never know when you're going to find Mr. Right.

Ducking inside, I find the whole place buzzing with people scattered across tables. Some are working on laptops, others are talking, and some are buried in a book. I make my way over to the counter. My gaze meanders across the menu, searching for something to wake me up and maybe give me a creative spark during the day. I never order the same thing twice.

"Something I can help you with?" asks a young woman behind the counter, her short, jet-black hair streaked with purple. Her purple apron is coffee-stained in ways that almost look like abstract art.

"I'm not sure what I'm getting yet." I turn back to the chalkboard menu, searching for the first thing that catches my attention.

"Not from around here, are you?" she says, and I am not sure if she's even interested in where I'm from.

"No, I'm not." I give her a quick smile, still scanning the menu. "How'd you know?"

"Most of our customers are regulars. We only get new people if they are new in town or tourists. So, which is it? Tourist or new in town?"

"New. Just moved here yesterday." I finally look down from the menu to find the woman staring at me still. My shoes feel tight all of a sudden, so I wiggle my toes.

"Big shot moves to a big city, huh?" She looks behind me at the patrons. "Hey! Little shit on the table, get down!" She flips her hand in front of her as though swatting away a fly. I turn my head to find two teen boys. One is kneeling on a table, trying to get a better look at the jersey hanging on the wall above him.

"Lavender coffee?" she asks as she starts tapping on the tablet in front of her as though I had already ordered it.

"Sure."

"What's the name for the order?"

"Rowan."

I pull out my debit card and pause. I hesitate before swiping it, remembering my bank account balance. The number forms a pit in my stomach, and I bite the inside of my lower lip. I swipe the card before I can think anymore.

"Well, Rowan, if you're staying in the city, you should give me a call sometime." She takes a pen and the receipt that just printed, scribbles on it, and slides it across the counter to me. Rachel. That's her name. My hand brushes against hers as I take it—warm. It reminds me how long it's been since I felt connected to someone. Real connection. Not that sappy stuff from the movies.

She isn't my type, though. She would be, if she weren't a she.

I take the paper, give a fake smile, and nod as I step to the side and wait for my coffee. I was going to ask for an application to work here, but now seems like a bad time. Well, never might be a good time. It would be unimaginably embarrassing to show up on my first day after ghosting my coworker.

I fumble with my Polaroid to look like I'm doing something important. God forbid anyone catch me just standing here. Through the lens, the coffee shop around me has a brown tint. It would be almost perfect to capture if the flash wouldn't freak out all of the patrons in the small room. I don't need any more attention here, especially with Rachel watching me.

I find a small, empty table next to a window. Outside, a man walks two dogs that are twice his size. A woman is frantically talking into her phone, arms slicing the air in front of her. This city is like an ocean, and I haven't learned to swim yet. LA was the same—big city, different elements. My thoughts are sliced in half when my name is called.

"Rowan." Rachel comes over to the pickup counter. She has her hair pushed back behind her ear now. She smiles as she slides the coffee across to me. I give another quick nod, grip my Polaroid in hand, and make my way for the exit. I open the door and step outside as she shouts out at me.

"Give me a call!"

I won't. But I like that she thought I might.

The door chime rings behind me, delicate and hollow, like it's echoing from somewhere much farther away than it should. The sound forces me to look up. The air outside smells like wet pavement and roasted beans. Boston hums in motion, every car and conversation overlapping like layers of a painting that never quite dries.

I take one more step forward, eyes adjusting to the light—

BAM.

Something solid slams into me. A person moving at full speed and wrapped in panic. My coffee detonates between us, exploding into the air, some landing on my face. Thankfully it isn't scalding. The damn coffee I spent six dollars on. Instinct takes over—I twist, lifting the Polaroid high above my head.

We hit the pavement hard. His weight knocks the breath out of me, ribs groaning, one palm scraping the sidewalk. The scent of burnt espresso mixes with asphalt and something metallic—blood, maybe, or adrenaline. Fucking hell. The fall felt like a lifetime plus some.

Then time catches up. Horns. Footsteps. Someone gasps. The stranger is still on top of me, his face inches from mine. Warm, slightly bad smelling, breath on my cheek. His glasses are crooked, his eyes wide, like he's still figuring out where he is. Something shines on his wrist—sunlight bouncing off a gold watch.

I can't look away. Time stutters, like a record jumping. Somewhere above us, a crow shrieks, and a single raindrop lands on my cheek, stinging my face.

I am glued to my phone, freshly painted nails clacking at the keyboard—bright blue that Eli says looks like one of his lines of code. I don't know what that means, but I know he means it as a compliment. I catch myself kicking my feet in the air behind me, like I'm fourteen again. I don't stop myself because no one is watching. I'm lying on my stomach on the bed. The dark blue comforter—that almost looks like purple—has been my blanket since I was eight. I look up from my phone at the cream-colored walls and the massive bookshelves that nearly line every wall. Each one filled with all types of books. Fantasy novels. Journals detailing every day of my life since I was eight. And knick-knacks I've collected over the years.

I return to my phone and see that Michael is texting back. The three circles in the grey bubble bounce up and down like they're jumping with excitement. I'm actually ridiculous, and I know it. Four months out of high school, and I'm already nostalgic for it. Michael texting me back does this to me. It's that stupid excitement I get, even though nothing has happened.

We first met in Biology 101, my very first class in college. He sat next to me and asked me for a pencil to take notes. His baby-blue eyes locked onto mine while I talked. That's how I knew he was always listening. His hair was parted down the middle and framed the sides of his face. It was like a dream, or maybe the start of a Taylor Swift song—which, now that I think about it, sounds pathetic. Honestly, I don't care. He's kind and funny—well, at least I think so. He cracks jokes during lecture that only I'm supposed to hear. "So the cell just ghosts the rest of the cells and dies? Reminds me of my previous relationship." It wasn't even funny, but I laughed loud enough that the professor glared at me. Something about him makes me think he'd go for a drive with me, and we would just wander the streets of Boston together, with no particular direction—just wander. We're texting now, and in my mind I'm planning our wedding and what our four kids' names are going to be.

I know no one is asking, but their names are Jasper, Lincoln, and the twins, Kaylee and Kyle.

I've done this before; I always do this for some reason. Mapping out a whole life with someone who barely knows me, and honestly, with someone I barely know. Tyler, freshman year—we would move somewhere, like Provo or something, and he would be an accountant, and I would be a…wife. My life would be structured, settled, and predictable. I'd do whatever wives do. Then Thomas, junior year. Same dream, same house, different husband. Always the same script.

Is Michael any different, or am I just recasting the same role for an old script?

Eli would say something like I'm pattern matching instead of actually finding what I want. He's right. I hate it, but he's right. But here's the thing he doesn't understand: patterns are safe, easy, comforting. The pattern was set for me before I was born. A good Mormon girl will do what's expected. The pattern means Mom smiles and Dad sheds a single tear at the wedding.

Eli has the guts to break the mold, and maybe that's what I hate about him. He always defies expectations. If I follow the pattern, then no one looks at me the way…the way they look at Eli.

Michael texts again. My stomach flutters, and my fingers tap the screen to read it immediately. I tell myself that's love. It has to be. I don't ask any more questions, because questions open the door to answers I'm not ready for. I almost text Eli about Michael, but I know what his response will be.

Mara, be careful of the chemical imbalances that play with your mind.

Eli always says to slow down and calculate the logical conclusion. But I can't help falling head over heels every time. And guess who's always there to pick me up off the ground and dust me off—Eli. He's much more stoic than I am, and for once in his life I wish that he would just lighten up a bit, get excited about something. Well, about someone. Yeah, I fall too fast, but that might be the best part.

That's the only way I like to think we differ. I fall headfirst into love. He analyzes it away. That's where he's wrong about the world. Feelings aren't math problems; they're… I don't know… feelings. It's like trying to describe the taste of an orange that someone hasn't ever tasted. You just taste. I just like to eat my oranges a little bit faster than he does.

I remember lying on the same bed, just like this, a few months ago. It was raining just as hard as it is now: steady, like fingers typing code. Then it was a summer storm, almost like a breath the earth took after a hot day. Now it's a fall storm, like a warning before winter hits. I was texting a boy I had been talking to for a few months. We were going to have a DTR soon. That boy ghosted me before it even sparked. He wanted someone a little more… I don't know. Or maybe less something. I never found out what that was.

But the bed is the same. The rain pounding on my window is the same. I've lived in the same home my entire life. Home has always been home. Slightly uncomfortable, but still, it is home. I remember the conversation I had with Eli, same bed, same house.

I kicked my feet in the air like we were middle school girls at a sleepover. Eli slouched against the wall across from me. He raised his eyebrows at my kicking feet, but I knew he could handle my ridiculousness. During a lull in the conversation, I set my phone down and let my legs drop to the bed with a thud.

"But, like, E… What is your type?" I asked. He was mindlessly typing away at his laptop. He glanced up at me through his glasses. I think he expected me to say something else, like he was waiting for me to answer it myself.

"I don't have a type," he mumbled. I hate it when he mumbles. If he's going to say something, he should say it with his chest. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut, like he was trying to massage out the quickest answer that would shut me up.

"You know, Mom and Dad aren't listening, E. You can be real with me."

He shook his head, and his focus darted back to his computer screen. I knew the app he was working on was important. I wished he'd take a break for a second.

"It isn't like they don't know. They just…"

"They do what they always do," he said, this time with his chest. My jaw dropped slightly—not because of what he said, but the fact he actually said it. Out loud. To me. "They just pretend it isn't there. It is their Mormon upbringing. It is our Mormon upbringing, Mara. Sweep it under the rug." His face melted into something I couldn't explain—not anger, not sadness, something deeper. I could tell he was processing his next words carefully. His ears started to burn red; that's how I knew he wanted to say something but couldn't bring himself to say it. He sighed. "You do it too sometimes."

That stung. He wasn't wrong. That's the kind of relationship we have. We can call each other out, even when it hurts.

I think about the night he finally told them. He said his truth, and what did I do? Dad was already halfway through the book of Leviticus, Mom was crying, and I…I just sat there, my mouth slightly agape. No words came. I didn't defend him then.

The accusation hurt because he was right. I was part of the pattern. Part of the silent statistics that kept him estranged.

The silence in the room was too long. I couldn't just let that sit there any longer. I cleared my throat.

"So what then, E? Are you just going to marry that laptop of yours?"

"Think logically about this," he said, his tone flat and calculated. He's always calculating something behind those big, round glasses. "Even if I did have a type, they would never approve."

"That's bullshit." The word escaped me quicker than I could think about it, and my hands shot straight to my mouth. I turned to a picture of Jesus hanging on the wall. My gaze returned to rest on Eli. He sat quietly for a second, his eyes darting back and forth between mine. He slowly closed the lid of his laptop and sighed, knowing that when I started swearing he had lost the battle. I wasn't sure if he was more frustrated with my pestering or his code.

"You know I love you, right?" I asked in a whisper, as though Jesus on the wall shouldn't hear this.

"I know." He gave me the look—the one that says "obviously, you overdramatic idiot." "I know you do, and I know you would follow me through outer darkness and back to just be with me." They say hell is hot. Eli hates the heat. I hope I'd walk through the heat with him, the same way he would for me. "But that doesn't change the fact that Mom and Dad will never talk to me again if…" He trailed off. He didn't need to finish the sentence for me to know what he was going to say.

I wish I could help him more like he helps me. He's the type to drive forty-five minutes to pick you up. I know that because he has done that.

Eli—the Eli I love—is poetic at the most random times. When he picked me up from a bad date, he said something that has stuck with me. It reminds me of what I'm looking for, but more importantly, of who he is.

"Mara," he said with the kind of tenderness you find in the calm of a storm. "Sometimes love just takes some time. Wait for that hum when it comes."

That was months ago. Different guy. Same warning that I haven't learned to listen to.

Michael texts me again, and my heart does that stupid kick-flip thing that Eli reminds me is just chemical imbalances in the brain. He takes all the fun out of love sometimes, it seems. I know he is right, but still, it's more fun to feel the feelings rather than analyze them.

Headed 2 class see you l8tr

I simply write back see ya, lock my phone, and place it on my chest as I roll over. My face aches from smiling. I sit in bliss for a moment before looking at my phone again to check the time. 9:25 AM. A notification on my phone reads Don't forget to pray! I bite my lip.

The notification sends a wave of panic down my spine. I had put the notification on snooze for a few months. That time must have expired. I like to think that the secret I have been keeping shows solidarity with Eli. Like if he can walk alone in something, then so can I. It is something that I haven't told my parents. Haven't told my bishop. Haven't even told Eli. I stopped praying six months ago. It wasn't on purpose. I just forgot one night and was too busy the next morning. Then one day turned into a week. Then, here I am.

I realized I didn't miss it. I still go to church. I still fold my arms when prayers start, but now I keep my eyes open. Do I feel bad about it? Yes. But something about it feels real. I still do everything I should. Say everything I should. And I know I will never tell anyone about my mini rebellion. Part of me feels liberated, but the other part of me feels…scared. God knows the intentions of my heart, but what if my refusal to talk to him ends up costing me? Like, what if the pause in communication ends up messing up the plan for me?

I shake my head and swipe the notification away. Outside, the rain is coming down in sheets. Cars send tidal waves onto the sidewalk, catching anyone unlucky enough to be nearby. The smell of wet asphalt nearly barges into my room through the window. Sound distorts as a car passes by. I can't imagine how they can even see in these conditions. The time echoes back to me. 9:25 AM. I frown. Eli said he'd call once he got to the store. He left at 9:20 sharp. Given his attentiveness to time, I doubt it was a second later. It's been five minutes. Nothing.

I open the app I use to track him. It's a little invasive, sure, but it goes both ways. I tap his name from the list of my other friends. He's driving. Looks like he's heading to the store. I watch as his car takes a left turn. I sigh.

Thunder nearly shakes the whole house—scratch that, the whole earth. The light in my room flickers three times. Each time the light disappears, I think that the power will go out. Then, I'll have to wander the house in candlelight.

The flicker of the lights reminds me that Eli is out there driving in this.

Drive safe. The text gets delivered but is left unread. He's driving, so of course he wouldn't text me back right now. He's almost as religious about being safe on the roads as our parents are about God. Still, I have this weird feeling, like the electricity in the air from the storm has shifted something.

The sound of tires on pavement is louder now. The rain is heavier. I can hardly see the street from my window. I hope Eli's not trying to beat the storm by driving faster.

My window is nothing but static. I catch my reflection. My hair is a mess—frizzy from the humidity and falling out of the bun I put it up into this morning; I need to get ready. "He's fine. He's always fine."

I get home from a long shift, throw my bag by the door. My cat, Oreo, is already at the entrance, expecting her welcome-home pets. I crouch down and place my hand on her back. She slides back and forth under my hand. She's the only one that I'm saving in this relationship. It's the only proof I have that I can save a life. My eyelids are barely holding. I could collapse right here on the floor. I stand up, stretch my hands overhead, and let out a groan. My back pops.

I shuffle over to the sink and run the water for a moment, allowing it to get as hot as humanly possible. My hands dip under the water; the sting is sharp. But that's the point. Feel something. I pull them from the water. I scrub lemon-scented dish soap, rubbing my hands together in a circular motion. Three. Four. Five. Hands back under. Suds gone.

The moonlit apartment feels sterile. Half lived-in. I doubt even a detective would be able to find my fingerprints anywhere. I wonder what they would find. Maybe my pills I stopped taking. Maybe they would find that Oreo has claimed the whole space as her domain. Maybe they would just find a quiet apartment where I used to just go through the motions.

It was a quiet day at work. Honestly, those are the worst. It means a lot of doomscrolling while I wait for a call. My feed is mostly EMT skits about the strangest calls they have been on, and, oddly enough, teacher burnout videos. It isn't that I hate my job. I don't, or at least, I tell myself that.

The pressure releases from my feet as I unlatch my boots. I really should get new ones—these have followed me for way too long. I change into clean scrubs. Scrubs are supposed to remind me of work, the last thing I want to think about at home. But they actually make pretty comfortable sleepwear. I fold the worn uniform meticulously before placing it in the hamper. I know folding does nothing. I'll throw them haphazardly into the washer when I get around to it.

I drag myself to the bathroom. My reflection catches my attention. My brown eyes look tired. Not the kind of tired from high school nights out with my friends. The kind of tired you see after being awake for forty-eight hours straight with nothing to show for it. Lifeless. My lips are cracked. I should use lip balm more, but I never pick it up when I'm at the store because it's just one more thing that I have to get.

My eyes close, and consciousness slips somewhere I don't want to be. The siren of our ambulance ringing in my ears. Smoke from the fire we responded to last week. The cries of the mother as we pulled her away from the house. She was screaming incoherent sentences about her son and pets. I shudder and get out of the bathroom.

I walk back into the living room. I pass by certificates and awards that tell me how proud I should be. A piece of paper hardly compares to what's actually on the line. I collapse on the couch. Head back, eyes on the ceiling, imagining I can see the stars. Cars honk outside, and I wish I were far away from the city. I wish I was in the forest, somewhere on a hiking trail in upstate New York. That's where I'd go. Sure, I'd be off the grid. But is that such a bad thing? To just disappear into a cottage in the woods?

Three-fourths of a tank of gas to get to where I want to go. Birds overhead. Something buzzing in the grass. A mysterious woman stands in the doorway. She's wearing something simple—white T-shirt and jeans. Someone who feels familiar, like I've known her my whole life. She watches as I wander the woods closest to us. Maybe there's a kid playing in the front yard.

Sounds pretty good to me.

I've dreamed about doing this for years, and nothing is stopping me. Abandoning this apartment isn't my problem. I just need to stand up and walk out the door. I'd drive as far into the wilderness as I could until my car broke down. I don't know the first thing about building a cottage, or anything, honestly. But I do know I want to get out of here. I have to admit something is stopping me, though. Well, not something, but a concept. The concept that something better might be coming.

Except this job has taught me what "better" usually looks like.

As an EMT I've witnessed both miracles and tragedies happen right before my eyes. At first, I celebrated with the rest of the team. Now I document all the failures. Every miracle was an act of creation. Every tragedy was an act of destruction. Both happened through my hands. Not because I caused them. The universe dictates. I just show up.

I've become numb to death. I don't know when that happened. My parents and brother died in a car accident when I was eighteen. It certainly still hurt then. I remember their funeral. I stared at each of their faces. Every single detail. Now I only remember the flaws. I wasn't in the accident, though. I was out with friends. I still think about those EMTs arriving on the scene. They tried everything they could to save the small family. They pulled them from the car, checked for a pulse, CPR—the works. What haunts me most is Damian. Just a kid. My sweet brother. I wish I were there instead of him.

"Can I go with Cal to his friend's?" Damian had pleaded, half with me and half with my parents. He'd glanced from me to my mom and back to me. My mom gave me a quick side eye, deferring the question to me. Damian had come with me a lot of nights to spend time with my friends. They called him "little Long" and thought it was funny that a ten-year-old wanted to hang out with teenagers. He was often invited to come along, but only when we weren't doing something dangerous or slightly illegal.

When Damian wasn't looking, I gave my mom a shake of my head. And she knew that tonight wasn't the night. That shake haunts me to this day.

A drunk driver going way too fast hit my parents' car head-on. They weren't supposed to be on that road. They were supposed to be at the movie theater. To this day, I don't know why they changed course. If they had just stuck to the plan, they would be here.

I rushed to the scene. When I arrived, I saw a kid-sized body bag being loaded into an ambulance. The world paused. No. It can't be. I closed my eyes so tight that I thought I might disappear. I wish I had.

Maybe if I had taken him with me, he'd be here on this couch. Maybe we'd be staring up at the stars together, instead of me wondering which one he's visiting today.

His face has almost faded from my memory, flaws taking his place. If it wasn't on my nightstand, I might not be able to remember it at all.

Not long after, I enrolled in an EMT program. To prove something. My family couldn't be saved, but I might be able to save someone else's. A stupid thought, and self-important now that I think about it.

I suppose that's why I've become numb to death. It found me at eighteen, and then I saw it occasionally, and now it is firsthand. That's the thing they don't tell you in school. It's different seeing a lifeless body lying peacefully in a casket, eyes closed like they're sleeping, blemishes covered with layers of makeup. Serene. I have to see the before of that. I have to see the hard details that makeup hasn't covered up yet. I have to hear the cries of those around the tragedy, those who survived, who witnessed it.

I'm twenty-three now. Five years of this has worn me down to the bone. Nothing feels real about it anymore. I go through the motions every day, not because I want to, but because I have to.

My phone screen lights up. It's almost 11:00 PM. Maybe I'll call Mark, just to see how life is for him. Three kids. A lovely wife. A small home in the suburbs of DC. He deserves it. I just wish I—

Tonight is not the night to think about that. Most nights, my mind won't let me fall asleep for thirty to forty-five minutes, but not tonight. Tonight it's screaming for sleep. My arm drops to the couch, and my phone bounces onto the floor.

Oreo jumps on my lap and breaks me from my train of thought. She stretches, digging her claws into my legs. I normally would throw her off, but tonight I let her. I just sit there as Oreo gets settled and my head is tilted back, staring at the ceiling. My thoughts begin to blur into static. Oreo curls tighter, and my breathing starts to settle into a rhythm.

A flash of something. Red lights? Blue lights? A kid-sized body bag.