The key sticks in the old lock of the cabin’s front door and I try not to panic. An image flashes of my hand turning it too hard or fast and breaking the metal tip in the lock, with Shea Davison inside and me standing here with chili ingredients on the front porch. That cannot happen.

I take a deep breath and force myself to count to three. When I try again, the key turns cleanly. The whole ring jangles as the door opens in front of me.

I have spent most of the afternoon bracing myself as one wave of anxiety crashes over me after another. I agonized about leaving Shea alone in the cabin. Then because I hadn’t driven the truck for days, I worried I’d somehow forgotten how. The whole time I ran errands, I listened for sirens, half expecting to see my face on the little TV the guy had going behind the counter at the gas station mini-mart.

Probably, though, it would be Shea’s face. Someone would have started looking for Shea long before Sonny thought to wonder where I’d wandered off. At the market, I used cash and then caught myself counting and recounting the bills. It is a finite sum after all, and Shea and I can only work as long as my stash of dollars lasts us.

I calm myself by taking stock of all the good luck tokens I’ve gathered around me. The keys that I set on the shelf near the front door, Shea’s sneakers in the corner, her phone in my pocket. I run my hand across each color on the painted wall and bend to plug in the fairy lights. I make myself drink a full glass of water. Only then do I let myself check on my guest.

I knock softly on the bedroom door; it’s so quiet in the cabin. I don’t hear Shea sobbing or wailing. Hopefully, that means she’s finally getting some solid rest. “Shea?” I open the door as I ask. I pronounce her name like my mom would mine calling up the stairs—sternly but with care. Shea murmurs a little sleep noise.

And then I see the shards of the mug on the floor. “What happened here?” I ask. She grunts a little. My voice gets sharper—more than I mean it to. But that ocean of concern churns again. She could have had a seizure. “Shea, are you all right?”

“Nora, I’m so sorry. You left medicine and it seemed like such a good idea, but then my hand just trembled and shook. I flat-out dropped it. Please tell me that mug wasn’t an heirloom.”

The worry waters recede again. “The Greetings from Mount Rushmore mug was not an heirloom, no.” I peer down. “Are those your socks?”

Shea sighs. “I tried my best to clean it up. The socks were all I had. Because I couldn’t grab a paper towel from the kitchen or anything like that.”

She’s always angling. “There’s no need for you to clean anything up. You certainly didn’t need to sacrifice your socks.” I retrieve them from the sticky puddle. “It gets cold in here.”

“I just feel so useless. You’ve got such an amazing place here, but you’re working so hard to take care of us. I could do more to contribute. I could help with chores.”

“You can’t even lift a mug, Shea. We’ve got to give you some time to heal and get your strength back. I’ll get the broom and dustpan. You just stay put.”

I can’t name it, but it feels different in the cabin. Tense. Some kind of power has shifted. Helen would tell me to stop approaching the situation from a place of paranoia. She’d say that growing up with Sonny taught us a kind of pattern, but that we could embrace the ability to disrupt that pattern. Helen doesn’t fight through the same undertow I do, just to keep my head above the waves that crash over me every time I have to talk to another person.

I focus on the tasks to accomplish and that helps me calm myself. I carry the porcelain fragments to the trash bin and bring back a bowl of soapy water and a sponge. “What a mess.” Shea bites her lip dramatically as she watches me scrub.

“Really, don’t worry about it. The stain comes right up. I’ll go get you another pair of socks just as soon as I clean up.”

“Thanks, Nora.” Shea looks like she is weighing what to say next. “My arm is still really sore.”

“I’ll bring you some more medicine. And we can put some salve on the cut.” I don’t leave room for Shea to ask about the handcuffs again. I don’t leave space for her to request a shower. I operate with a new rule—every time Shea uses my name, I respond with complete frost. She will not manipulate me.

“I’m just not sure all that’s helping. Maybe—”

But I cut her off. “Well, next time don’t strain to mop up any spills. There’s no need for that. You’re a guest here.” The statement hangs there in the room, but Shea doesn’t reach for it. She doesn’t comment; she doesn’t correct me. “Okay so, medicine, fresh socks, and I sure hope you like chili.”

I close the bedroom door behind me to give myself a break. Shea demands so much attention. That’s the downside of providing us with such a quiet haven—Shea isn’t used to isolation the way I am. But she’ll see the benefits once she and I can really start rehearsing and recording.

The excitement starts to rise in my chest as I prep dinner. I chop peppers and slice onions. As I wind up the can opener, I listen for any sound from the bedroom. That’s when I hear her snuffling in her room again. Whimpering. I slam the pans on the burners. I cannot believe she’s crying again.

Concentrate on the task at hand, I remind myself.

I focus on making a healthy meal—fuel for us. I think of her like a colicky baby. She needs to cry it out. Shea is a creator after all. She’s probably restless with lack of expression.

She’s also probably experiencing a little bit of withdrawal. If I’m being honest, Shea displays classic symptoms of an addiction to her phone, to social media. Those aren’t difficult dots to connect and of course I’d considered it in my planning. But now that I see her suffering through those symptoms, I have a better understanding of the serious nature of her dependence.

This retreat might just turn out to be the best gift I could have given Shea. When I began planning, I didn’t fully understand how much she needs this. And maybe her followers need it too.

The whole time I cook, Shea’s phone shudders in my front pocket. Tiny waves of alerts lapping against the shore. Thank goodness I switched it to vibrate. Otherwise, the notifications would have driven me to distraction. These interruptions must punctuate her entire life.

What’s up with the unplanned vacay? No songs to post, Shea?

We miss you, baby girl.

Shea, please let us know you’re okay.

Can’t wait to see the new material, Shea. Must be magic to warrant an all-out hiatus!

Shea, any take on Kamalani Enomoto’s latest post?

Re: Kamalani’s post—did she shut you down? You hiding?

Hey team Enomoto, not everything’s about your girl. Shea can take a break if she needs one.

Yah, so can we. Baby girl, your numbers are falling. The people want more than nature photos.

Shea, please post a selfie. Just a quick pic to let us know you’re okay.

Re: selfie. Shay’s okay, fangirls. She just got tired of Kamalani dancing circles around her, so she turned into a snowy emo tree.

Give us a break, Kamalot—Shea’s obviously going through something major. Not the time.

It just goes on and on—a steady stream of commentary and questions. Demands and assumptions. I don’t know what Kamalani Enomoto’s followers intend to prove. It seems crazy to root for one girl at the expense of another, as if we’re horses racing around a track.

But it’s clear that in the TikTok arena, Shea is now considered a limping thoroughbred. Let them write her off, I think to myself, scraping the burnt beans from the sides of the chili pot.

Shea has me to help her stage her comeback.