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It’s eight in the morning according to the chiming clock on the mantel above our double-sided fireplace. The rest of the condo is silent.
Using one crutch, I limp/hop quietly to the restroom, once again amazed the annoying fan is magically fixed. I use a clean washcloth to wipe the “sleepy men's sand” (as Daddy would call it) out of my eyes and take my required medication.
I’d feel better if I could get used to this heavy cast. I’d undo the straps on my arm immobilizer, but I don’t want to see any pins sticking out of my body or gore today. No thank you.
Dragging my left foot behind me, I sneak into our kitchen and choose a coffee pod. I select Dark Magic, a bold, intense dark roast that ensures I stay awake, and insert it into the Keurig. Next, with only using my right hand, I pull out four eggs from the refrigerator, two at a time. I set four pieces of Trader Joe’s multigrain bread in the toaster and start making breakfast.
Tell me, Viewer, are you hungry? Are you the type who eats three meals a day or are you a grazer like Denny was? Oh, how I miss my guy.
There’s a soft rap on the door, so I ask Alexa to unlock it, knowing it must be Jeremy since he’s always early. Then I remember Zoey set the bolt, so I hobble over, unlock it, and greet my friend. After entering without speaking, he points upstairs. I signal in the affirmative. Yes, Zoey’s still asleep.
As he holds my good elbow and directs me into the kitchen, he whispers, “Feeling better? You look like you got some sleep.”
“Yes, I was making breakfast. Do you want Zoey’s since she’s still asleep? I could always make more when she wakes up.”
“You bet. I’ll cook. You go sit down. Are scrambled eggs okay?”
We both seem much more relaxed. Almost as if we’d both jumped over a large hurdle that didn’t fall down and neither did we.
He gets out three plates and silverware and goes to work, reminding me that his brother is an executive chef at a fancy hotel in Chicago. During high school, Jeremy learned how to cook due to Dylan’s practicing and testing recipes on the family.
They’re stepbrothers since Dylan’s father married Jeremy’s mom a year after Dylan’s mom skipped out on them. Dylan and his wife moved out of the Valley a few years ago.
As he preps, we talk about what needs to be done today. He mentions he should go by his parents’ house and find their financial documents, plus see if any bills need to be paid.
I tell him that I have no doctor appointments for the day, and I wish I could check up on Aunt Amy, who lives off Sepulveda Boulevard.
The conversation is normal, almost how it was before the disappearances wrecked our lives. We talk about work and who’s missing.
When I bring up Brittany-the-flirt, he gives me a dead stare and blurts out, “Don’t set me up with her, please, ever!”
“Jeremy, she’s cute and fun. She may be the perfect one for you.”
We must have been enjoying ourselves and laughing loudly because Zoey comes down the stairs, her hair a mess and wearing the same clothes she had on last night.
She says groggily, “I need coffee! This is too early for me.”
Jeremy, ever so helpful, picks up a cup of already steaming hot liquid and walks it over to her as she stands at the foot of the staircase. “Here you go, Zo. And your breakfast is almost ready.”
She pads over to the other barstool next to me and sits down, running her fingers through her long, untidy black hair.
“And you say I’m a trainwreck, Zoey?” I interject as Jeremy places two plated dishes in front of us, turning them at a perfect angle to view from our side, complete with toast encompassing eggs and three slices of avocado displayed perfectly. “You are the mess, girl. Look at you. You didn’t even bother to change.”
She starts to backpedal. “I-I fell asleep. I never sleep in business attire. I don’t think I’ve done this before.” She seems confused. “Amir and I were texting half the night. Good thing he likes late hours like I do. Time must have gotten away from both of us; I fell asleep. I’ll have to check my phone to see which one of us texted last. It’s still upstairs. This is so not me.”
Jeremy tells her, “Eat first. Before it gets cold.”
She digs in, as do I, while Jeremy stands on the opposite side, sampling his culinary creation.
“Jer, this is good—really good.”
“The secret is water,” he says. “Most people add milk to their scrambled eggs, but my brother taught me that adding water essentially steams them, and as the water evaporates during cooking, it yields a fluffier scramble.”
“Well, I usually pass on breakfast, but this is marvelous. Thanks. Well needed.”
After breakfast is over and the dishes are cleaned up, Zoey goes upstairs and quickly gets ready for work.
When she comes downstairs, she carries my UCLA sweatshirt, underwear, a sports bra, and a pair of Denny’s drawstring sweatpants with one leg cut off. She helps me into the clothes in the bathroom, and she’s out the door at 9:37 a.m., which might be later than normal for her.
As she leaves, she tells us she’ll be back around six, and we’ll decide then if we want to eat last night’s meal or get something else.
“Zo sure is a bullet,” Jeremy comments. “More like a whirlwind. Does she ever stop?”
“Rarely—but she’s a good friend. I depend a lot on her. She’s one-in-a-million.”
“That she is. So, what do you want to do next? Carl texted, asking how things are going here.”
I say, “Oh, I’ve got an idea. And you can help! Remember that James boy from the crash? The one in my photo?”
“Sure. The fifteen-year-old, right?”
“Yes. I didn’t go into much detail since Carl only wanted it in bullet format, but I did reference his seatmate who disappeared during the flight. Having the guy evaporate right in front of him freaked the kid out. Carl and I talked, and he wants me to do a follow-up. Let me text the teen and see if we can meet him or have him come here and maybe do an interview at the crash site in the field behind my condo. You know, make it all about surviving the devastating fallout of the crash.”
Jeremy says, “Do you think he’ll want to revisit where it happened this early? I mean, would you want to stand next to that burnt-out fuselage and rehash the horror? Or would you want to go upstairs to Denny’s office and revisit all that angst you felt when you realized Denny was gone?”
He continues, “That’s what I’m struggling with today; at this minute, I don’t know how I can go into my parents’ house alone. I’d only go there if you’re with me. Dylan said he can’t come help me out either—all airports around the country are still shut down, and he hates driving.”
“Yes, I see what you’re saying,” I say. “What if I text James, see his response, and then we’ll go from there? If he’s up to it, we’ll have him come here—and see if he wants to go out in the field where the plane hit.”
I add, “Then maybe tomorrow, I’ll have more energy to get out of the house, and we can swing by Aunt Amy’s and your parents’ places. How does that sound?”
“That makes sense. Physically take it easy today, and tomorrow maybe we can venture out. Yes, text James, and let’s see what happens.”
In less than a half hour after contacting James, he responds, and we set the time to have him come to my condo at two o’clock. In the meantime, I sit on the couch with my laptop, my foot cast resting on a pillow on the glass table while Jeremy transports his video equipment from his vehicle into the great room.
While checking emails and online news sources, I turn on the TV above the mantel. There are only a few visuals of the mega earthquakes in the Pacific Northwest, most likely because there’s no electricity or 5G available in the big cities of Olympia, Tacoma, and Seattle, which have received most of the damage. A tsunami hit the shores of multiple islands in the Puget Sound.
My phone rings; I notice it’s Denny’s friend, who’s a cop in Burbank.
“John! How are you?”
“The bigger question is how are you, Sarah?”
I update him on my accident and that I’m back home, getting used to being a gimp with a worthless hand. He tells me how he’s pulling twelve-to-fourteen-hour shifts and that things are crazy in the Valley, especially at night. Mainly gangs confronting nobodies. It’s beyond controllable, and the police know it, so they back off because they don’t have enough workforce.
He tells me, “If Denny’s one of those who disappeared, you need to go online and report it.”
“How? Where?”
“There’s a new website—I think the OWL or something like that set it up. Go to Missings.org. It’s a global site where all those who’ve disappeared are being collected and tabulated. Put in as much info as you can.”
“OWL? Who’s that?” I question. “Maybe ‘O’ for Only, One, or Our? ‘W’ could be for World, and ‘L’ maybe for Liaison, League, Lobby, or Lord. One World League?”
“Beats me,” he says. “Get online as soon as you can and file a report. The site went live a few hours ago, so most people don’t know about it. Do it before the president announces it tonight in his speech, and the site overloads and crashes.”
“Okay. Will do.”
“And Sarah, be careful out there. Stay home, as I advised you earlier. Don’t go out unless you must. Do you need anything? I can stop by, if so.”
“No, I’ve got plenty. I’m being well cared for.” I tell him briefly about Zoey and Jeremy.
“Okay. I got to go. We’re going to have a press conference in an hour about the Valley falling to pieces.”
“Is Valley News covering it?” I ask.
“Probably—if they have the manpower. The more who know about it, the merrier.”
When we hang up, I tell Jeremy about the missings site and jump online to fill out the form.
After I enter Denny’s Social Security number, date of birth, address, et cetera, I’m asked to input his physical description, when he disappeared, where he was when it happened, if I was present during it, and if any proof of the disappearance, such as clothing or jewelry, was left behind.
It takes forever to type with one hand, but I’m faster on a keyboard than on a phone.
Feeling as if I’m displaced and writing a fictitious story, I wonder if you, Viewer, would be affected by filling out this form. Would you only have to file for one person or many?
Jeremy drags out his phone and reports his mother’s information but not his father’s. I hear him sniffle several times, hopefully not rehashing the terrible experience of finding out what happened to both parents.
By the time we’re done, I’m worn out. Jeremy fixes me a small salad and cons me into taking a nap. I’m proud that I haven’t taken any Vicodin, but I do ingest three Motrin to ward off the throbbing in my hand and foot. I lie down and quickly fall asleep, lulled by Alexa playing soft classical piano music in the background, which Jeremy thoughtfully selected.
***
A gentle push on my shoulder pulls me out of my slumber.
Jeremy’s rousing me. “Time to wake up, Sarah. It’s one-thirty, and James will be here soon. We don’t want you snoring through your interview, do we?”
He helps me to the bathroom, where I comb my hair and put on a little makeup. He asks me if I want to put on a nicer-looking shirt, but we decide it’s best if I’m not in view during the video or still shots, since I might become the focal point due to my battered body.
James arrives precisely on time and is taken aback by my appearance. It takes several minutes to explain the past several days of my life. Introducing him to Jeremy is a good segue. Both males seem to instantly bond, which is a plus.
There’s a look on the boy’s face that I didn’t see when we first met. Maybe I didn’t notice it, but he seems more reflective, more observant as his eyes dart back and forth around the room. Most likely going through the crash has made him change. I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s shifted in him.
When all formalities are over and we all settle in the great room, I ask, “James, did your mom drop you off or did you have any issues coming over?”
“No, ma’am—I mean, Sarah. I rode my e-bike over; it gets me everywhere and is easy to ride on most streets if I avoid the congestion and gangs. My stepfather gave it to me for my birthday last year. I like it because I can get around faster than taking an Uber.”
“That’s cool,” cuts in Jeremy. “And you don’t have to buy gas.”
They talk about how fast it can go and if it’s hard to pedal.
“In five months, I’ll be getting my driver’s license. My mom and stepdad said they’ll match any money I have to help me buy a car.”
“Out of school now?” Jeremy engages him in a way that’s not pushy or condescending.
“School. Well, they’re closed due to the missings. No kids in elementary school and about half in middle school. With the teacher and staff shortages, the LA County Unified School District shut down all thirteen-hundred schools for now. Wonder how long it’ll be until they reopen.”
I hadn’t thought about that—no schools are open. Why would they be as parents and families deal with their loved ones’ disappearances?
Viewer, are you dealing with this? Do you have any kids in school who were not taken? How are they dealing with it?
“So do you work?” asks Jeremy.
“Yeah, just weekends at California Pizza Kitchen on Tampa Avenue, or I did. I mean—if they’re still open. I haven’t checked. Too many stores and restaurants have their doors closed, especially at the mall. I heard gangs have taken it over.”
I look at Jeremy. He looks at me. I know this kid enjoyed talking to me about journalism at the crash site. He’s a bright boy. And intelligent. Way up there on the maturity level.
“Jeremy and I could put a good word in for you at Valley News. Would that interest you?”
“That would be awesome! I would love to be an intern or something. I’d even do it for free.”
“No. That wouldn’t be necessary, but we’d be glad to help,” adds Jeremy as he glances at me.
It’s settled. We both could make James our “Project Feel Good” after all the bad that surrounds us. And it would be easy to twist Carl’s arm to get him to give the kid a job, even if it’s menial. It would be a good start in the news world.
When I ask James if he wants to talk about the crash, he flinches slightly but agrees. I sense he’s cautious and still shell-shocked from the event, but he appears to want to put it behind him by talking about it.
Having been through some of it with him and experiencing my horrors, visiting the crash scene is probably the best therapy to center both of us back to living life.
Together we leave my condo, solemnly retracing our steps through the nightmare we went through—past the now-charred swing set, cross the side street, and into the field where the Boeing 737 crashed and one-hundred-and-twenty-three lives were lost. Respectfully, Jeremy tags behind us, giving the two of us the space to reverently remember the fiery accident.
During the video shoot, Jeremy handles the only survivor with kid gloves, prompting him to stand a certain way by the side of the plane. We both agree not to shoot in front of the opened fuselage, where the torn seats and devastation would trigger sickening memories for both James and me. Thankfully, the strewn body parts that continue to give James and me nightmares are gone from the weeds and California poppies.
The video takes only a few minutes to do, with me asking brief, concise questions about James, his name, age, where he lives currently, and how he was flying from San Diego where his dad lives to Bob Hope Airport. I touch on what the boy witnessed and felt when the strange sound occurred and when people disappeared including the pilot, and the plane turned on its side. I don’t focus on the crash itself, but how the teen came to when he was videoed on my camera and his hand moved. We briefly mention his seatmate.
The shortness of the tape, in my opinion, is perfect, because the less time standing in that field, the better for my psyche—and probably James’s, too.
As I limp with the one crutch back to my condo, I direct the conversation to my interviewing goal by asking James, “You mentioned Eddie, the guy who sat next to you. I want to know more about him. Can you talk about that?”
Jeremy trails behind us but has his boom mic close enough to capture our conversation.
“Yes, he was my seatmate. A cool dude. Older than I am, but we got along well. I’ll miss him, although I barely got to know him. He loved sports, including basketball—just like I do. That was what we talked about the most. He arranged tickets to next week’s Lakers game for me since he couldn’t go.” The boy’s steps slow down when he mentions it.
“Yes, you said that,” I say.
“His email did go through. I can pick them up at the game. I don’t know, though. I mean, I’ll be sitting in a dead guy’s seat. I don’t know how I feel about that.”
“Oh, James. He didn’t die. He disappeared. You know that. You saw him go.”
“I did, Sarah. That was crazy. Seeing him and then not, right in front of my eyes; it was like watching a Star Trek movie where the person slowly dematerializes, but more instantaneous and no swirling particles. I still can’t believe how it happened. It was totally weird.”
Yeah, that’s true, but why is he saying it with calmness in his demeanor? As if he knows something I don’t.
All three of us stop on the sidewalk, right in front of my condo, where there’s a potted rose bush next to a little iron gate to our patio that has a metal table with two matching chairs.
I put my good hand on the kid’s arm. “It’s okay, James. I know. My husband Denny is gone, too. I found him. I found what he left behind, including his contact lenses, the crown of a tooth, his watch, and his wedding ring. I know what you’re feeling. I know. And I’m sorry, so very sorry.”
I look at Jeremy, wondering if he will mention his mother’s disappearance, but he doesn’t.
James doesn’t reply, but we start walking again. As we approach my front door, he says, “Yes, and I told you what Eddie said. He talked about God; he said it was God who changed him, who made him whole and complete.”
“Yes, I remember you saying that—and me telling you he was wrong. There’s no God, and you need to forget what he said and move on.”
As I put the key in the door to unlock it, James blurts out, “No, Sarah, you’re wrong. You’re the one who’s dead wrong.” His tone is firm and uncharacteristic for someone like him to confront an adult like that.
I again look at Jeremy; his eyebrows are raised as if wondering what’ll happen next.
“Sure. You can say that, but you don’t mean it,” I add as I enter the great room, putting my keys down on the nearby half-moon mahogany table.
“We’ll see about that,” replies James.
He turns to Jeremy, as if for support or agreement. “What do you think? Do you think there’s a God, the Creator of the Universe?”
“Yes and no or no and yes,” replies my friend. “What is God? He’s whatever you want Him to be. I do think there’s a Superior Being who created Heaven and Earth, yes. But I don’t think a Deity can control us.”
“See, there you go. No God,” I add.
“Fine. Be wrong. But let me tell both of you this, right before Eddie disappeared, he told me to read the Bible. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I told my mom and you that I would. Started on page one in Genesis about Creation and have already done the first five books, called the Pentateuch. And you know what I’ve learned? There’s a God. Period.”
I contest. “Fine, James, it’s great you’re reading the Bible. I never have and doubt I ever will, but please do it with open eyes. It’s all a mystical, unbelievable story. It’s fabricated.”
He shakes his head. “No. It’s. Not.”
The conversation is getting heated with his stubborn determination and my frustration over the topic.
Jeremy enters the kitchen, turning a deaf ear to our impasse.
Viewer, what would you do to shut this down? Do I let him continue or what?
James leaves me alone sitting in the great room on the couch and heads into the kitchen and focuses on Jeremy. “Have you ever heard the verse John 3:16? You know, they use it on signs everywhere, especially at sporting events?”
“Uh-huh,” Jeremy replies mindlessly.
Based on his response, maybe he also wants James to cease his sermonizing.
“It’s easy. ‘For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’”
“Yes. I’ve heard it, James. So, what’s the point?”
“Just asking. People always stop at that verse, but I like the next one: ‘For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through Him might be saved.’ The two verses are beginning to mean a lot to me. Especially since Eddie gave me this before he disappeared.”
He pulls out a key fob from his pants pocket and tosses it to Jeremy, who misses the catch. The thing clatters on the kitchen island’s countertop.
This piques my interest. Does it whet yours, Viewer? Do you know what it could be?
I don’t say anything, waiting to see Jeremy’s response.
“It’s got a flash drive,” James says as Jeremy picks up the USB drive and inspects it.
“I see that. What’s it got on it? It says RaptureKit.com on its side.”
“Only everything I’ve wanted to know, Jeremy—about God and Jesus and other stuff—like the future of the world. That’s the one Eddie gave me. It has a massive 32GB to put in your computer, and you’ll have everything right there! It’s got videos, files, Bibles, tracts in different languages, sermons and teachings, and lots of articles about what to do after the Rapture, which happened when so many disappeared days ago!” He’s ecstatic talking about it, as if he’s obsessed.
From the other room, I try to stop him from ranting, but he ignores me.
“And get this—the info is free online. I’ve downloaded the files to other flash drives, and I’m going to give them out to everyone I meet. Yep, that’s what I’m going to do, and no one can stop me.”
Seriously? This boy’s gone mad. He reminds me of Aunt Amy and her incessant preaching and proselytizing. No, it’s worse! This teen can’t be saying these things, believing them. No.
“James!” I vent as I stumble over to the kitchen island and stand next to him. “Don’t get involved in this stuff. It’s nonsense. I know, I’ve lived with it for years; it’s dribble.”
“No. It’s not. Do you know the ABCs of eternal salvation?” he retorts. “I do now, and it’s easy to believe. Admit you are a sinner. Believe in Jesus. Confess Jesus as your Lord—how simple is that?”
“Oh, stop it,” I say. “Here are my DEFs on the topic; and listen carefully. ‘D’ is for deceiving as the Bible says that all have sinned and death is the penalty, and that can’t be true; it’s hearsay to give no hope to people. I’m certainly not a bad person, and neither are either of you.”
I glimpse at Jeremy, and he’s smirking.
“‘E’ is for exclusionary because it leaves out certain people or groups: If you don’t believe specifically in Jesus dying on the cross for your sins by shedding His blood and rising on the third day, you go to Hell. And ‘F’ is for fatuous because Christianity shows a lack of good sense or intelligence; it’s foolish to believe its stories like the Flood, the Red Sea splitting, Jesus’s resurrection, et cetera, and there’s not enough to prove them except for some book man has written.”
With emphasis, I add, “Oh, and I’ll add ‘G’ for gaslighting because Eddie has manipulated you by psychological means using the Bible to gain power and control over you.”
I think that one hurt because James is only shaking his head back and forth, not speaking.
But I’m on a roll. “Want me to keep going? I’m sure I could cover every letter of the alphabet more than once.”
Yeah, you can see this is a hot topic for me. Can’t you?
Now Jeremy is grinning. I knew he would take my side over this newbie to a religion he knows little about.
James is mute. He should know better than to debate with me about religion, any religion. But I don’t want to argue; I only want to put him in his place, like I just did. I like him, but not what he’s currently pushing.
Finally, James backs down when Jeremy asks him who his favorite basketball team and players are. Thank goodness calmness fills the kitchen again; I’m relieved.
We all play nicely for about twenty minutes more, and then James says he must get home. His mom wants him to help her in the kitchen since their housekeeper disappeared. His mom doesn’t like to cook. Yeah, I can’t see the boy’s mom knowing how to make scrambled eggs, with or without adding water to make them fluffier.
***
When five o’clock comes around, Jeremy turns on the TV to 24/7 news and our president makes a brief statement. He begins by apologizing that there are no definite answers to why millions have disappeared, but he reminds us it is his top priority. He urges us citizens to calm down and support our country—our world—as we accept a new normalcy. He tells us the military and all local police forces have the authorization to keep the peace in our cities, no matter what the cost. After mentioning to report online those loved ones who are missing, he concludes his message by reiterating we need to band together and help each other deal with the grief and tragedies we all are facing.
Throughout the short talk, OWL’s website flashes across the bottom of the screen.
During the speech, Jeremy uploads James’s video and I write my article involving Eddie. The words don’t flow the way I expect, most likely because I’m still miffed at James’s religious declaration. I try not to lash out at the kid between the lines. After reading it aloud to Jeremy, where he catches my subtle digs but tells me it is acceptable, it’s forwarded to Carl.
By six, Zoey texts that she’ll be late—like after seven—so she insists we go ahead and eat. We pull out the Thai food and reheat it, with Jeremy adding a pile of fresh veggies to the khao pad with shrimp. I try to help him cut the mushrooms and carrots, but I run out of steam and am banished to the couch once again.
As we converse across the room, he sets the table in the dining room and lights two tapered candles. While eating, we talk casually and comfortably, like good friends reminiscing; we discuss his parents and brother and Denny along with my family.
We both question if we need to have memorial services for our loved ones or arrange for a plot in a cemetery. Jeremy tells me Dylan and he decided to have their dad cremated and his ashes sprinkled on their property. Jeremy says he’ll make some kind of marker with both parents’ names on it to place nearby.
But I don’t know what to do about Denny. Having none of his remains does not give me any closure. I miss him so much yet do not know what to do or think.
What would you do if you were me?
After dinner, both Jeremy and I are asleep when Zoey arrives at 7:30 p.m. He’s stretched out on the couch, and I’m wrapped cocoon style on my bed with my casted leg sticking out of the comforter. The television still has the 24/7 news playing, something I enjoy falling asleep by.
“I hate to wake you two, but it’s not even eight!” She startles both of us.
Jeremy gets up, seemingly uncomfortable that he had sacked out on my couch and was awakened by a woman. He stumbles to the bathroom while Zoey puts her briefcase down, goes to the fridge, and scavenges for food.
As usual, she grabs a fork from the drawer and samples the left-over Thai food, commenting between bites how good it tastes and that it’s full of vegetables. By the time she completes her feast, Jeremy returns to the great room and informs us he needs to leave.
“No, you can’t yet,” my girlfriend says. “Sar must shower. It’s been almost a week. Look at her. That stringy hair has to go. Jer, can you help me get her up the stairs?”
I look at Jeremy, who is blushing.
“No, you won’t be assisting in her undressing and dressing. We only need your brute and brawn for the task of getting her to the bathroom. Please,” she implores.
He accepts the task, with an obvious sigh of relief.
The several attempts of the two of them trying to carry me by each holding my thighs or Jeremy cradling me in his arms would make a silly sitcom. The easiest way to tackle the job without hurting my leg or hand is for me to ride piggyback on him, with my good arm wrapped around his neck and Zoey directing my derriere. We climb the stairs carefully.
I glare at the final top step where my stupid sock slipped, forcing me to tumble.
When we pass Denny’s office, I’m thankful the door is closed. I’m not one to go down memory lane, especially when I’m not ready to deal with its aftermath.
Zoey helps me remove my clothes, and I waddle into the shower with the abundance of plastic trash bags she has put on my protected extremities. The warm water feels wonderful, including when she washes and rinses my hair, being careful not to let soap run down into my puffy, bruised eye. She’s right: This is what I needed. Afterward, I feel exhausted but so fresh and clean.
Before Jeremy leaves, I climb onto his back and am delivered back to my bed. Zoey offers me Vicodin, but I refuse, only accepting more Motrin since I’m determined to fight the pain.
After inspecting my swollen eye and declaring it has gorgeous hues of blue, she gently kisses me on my forehead like Daddy does and says goodnight before turning off the lights and heading upstairs. I quickly fall asleep, not fretting about James and his ridiculous flash drive.