Page 54 of Second Alarm
"Yeah."
"I can see them from here." Her voice is very quiet. "Your face is still completely flat, though."
"Yeah."
"How do you do that."
"I don't know."
"It's unnatural." But she's not laughing at me. She's looking at me the way she did at the academy on the night I can't talk about — full, bright, terrifying clarity — and she hasn't reached for the deflection, hasn't started a joke, hasn't found the punchline.
"Hanna. Say something."
"I'm thinking."
"Okay."
"Don't rush me."
"I'm not rushing."
"I can hear you not rushing."
"Hanna."
"Shut up."
Her face is in motion, very small, very contained. Her mouth thinks of and discards things. Her eyes flick once to the coffee pot and back. Her hand, on the counter edge where the laminate has raised from wear, picks at it.
Then she crosses the space between us.
It's one counter panel. Maybe four feet. She crosses it the way she crossed a dorm room a decade ago — without much warning, the manner of a person who's decided and for whom there's no more thinking.
She puts both hands on my shoulders and looks up at me.
"Ty."
"Hanna."
"I need to say something."
"Okay."
"I kept the packing list. For the shirt I mailed you. I kept it for ten years. I found it in a shoebox last month when I was packing to move, looked at it, thought about throwing it out, didn't, put it back in the box, and packed it. It's in my mother's garage right now."
"Okay."
"That's what I wanted to say."
"Okay."
"I miss you." Her hands tighten on my shoulders.
"Okay."
"Ty."
"Yeah."
