Sitting at the kitchen table, I lean in closer to the phone’s tiny screen. I rushed through the editing job, and it shows. This last video is difficult to watch; I see every defect now that “Gouge Away” has already posted. Usually, I prefer to take my time, to deliberate each shot.

Once when I only knew her from a distance, I tuned in for an “Ask Me Anything with Shea Davison.” Another follower asked what she loved about choreography and I remember that Shea said she loved puzzling through it. She loved the challenge of finding the movement that perfectly fits a particular lyric, the exact sequence that matches a song just so.

I feel that way about cutting video. We make an amazing team, Shea and me. She can create the content and I can help her package it properly. This partnership will free her from worrying about those other details, the ones that weigh her down and kill her creative spirit. She can focus fully on what she loves. Maybe we’ve learned that I don’t even need to dance—I’m possibly more of a director than a performer. With any luck, that’s something Shea and I will still have the chance to work through together.

Right now, I’m working through significant frustration. Shea keeps weeping behind me, and that’s honestly very distracting. So much so that I posted this last video without one final review. That’s an accidental post with substantial consequences. My edits of the rig are problematic, for one. If you’re looking for it, and some of our followers are certainly searching, you can see the ghost of the rig swinging from the ceiling. It surfaces as a blurry stretch of background attached to Shea, limiting her movement.

In the “Would?” video, I took my time with the eraser brush; without Shea’s mischief, everyone would have overlooked it. But I hurried through the process for the Pixies song—I was careless and left an outline. Anyone could notice.

Then there is the blood. I missed one frame, maybe three. But the gore is jarring. You blink and a quick footprint of blood stains the wood floor.

It hurts me to see it. I meant to scare Shea, that’s all. To remind her that I am a person to be appreciated. I’d played it out so differently in my head. I thought she would slip her feet into the sneakers and maybe nick her heel or scrape her toe. I thought it might slow her down, lower those leaps. I didn’t expect that Shea would push against that pain and keep going. I didn’t anticipate that she would dance through until she’d cut herself all up.

Now words like assault and kidnapping keep popping up on the screen. I force myself to count to three and breathe in. Count to three and exhale. Shea’s injured—I see that, but we can handle it with the first aid kit and some time off her feet.

It was a foolish thing to do—it was a dumb prank. I can’t see how it counts as assault.

Shea’s stubbornness has undone us. She is so proud of her discipline and strength. But all of us are meant to eventually relent. Now blood seeps from the glittering white soles of her new shoes. She’s ruined them. All that time I spent making them perfect, and she’s ruined them. I need to figure out what to do next. Shea mews and whimpers and sops up the blood with the rag I threw down. But now I can’t do much more than that. After all, the comments are coming through. They need my attention too.

The words scroll fast and insistent, asking about the extent of Shea’s injuries. Her followers call me cruel names; they make outlandish claims. They point to how Shea’s face has drained of color and of course ask about the blood seeping into the floorboards. I try to type quickly: Appreciate your care. We’re exploring special effects over here.

No way. Reporting this video for content. Team Shea: Call 9-1-1, okay?

Already called. Hey, Othergirl, cops on their way.

We love you, Shea. Reported for content. Hoping you’ll get home safe.

Call 9-1-1. Time to Gouge out Othergirl.

I try not to panic—it’s just a few troublemakers, melodramatic content creators themselves. I try for a cheerful, helpful tone. BTW, Shea thinks this misunderstanding is hilarious.

Devo responds directly to my post. Then put Shea on live. Give her the mic.

My eyes run over the typed line of Devo’s comment, trace the shape of the letters. Devo needles me. But it might be the one way to slow down the situation, to buy me and Shea some time for healing. We’ll take a break from posting. And then we’ll launch a comeback.

“They want to see you, Shea. Our followers love you. All these comments—they’re checking to make sure you’re okay.”

Shea looks up at me slowly, as if she can’t quite decipher my language.

“I am not okay, Nora.” Shea’s voice shakes.

“You went too far,” I chastise. Then I confess, “And I went there too. I’m so sorry about the shoes, but I never expected you to keep dancing. You’re so successful but you feed this need to constantly prove yourself. We both have this artistic mentality. We use ourselves up.” I start straightening the backdrop. I grab the rag and start swiping away some of the blood from the floor.

“Let’s make it quick,” I tell her. “Nothing elaborate. Just a check-in to cheer up folks who may have been disturbed. We pushed boundaries. Artists do that, right? We just need to acknowledge that last video went too far.” I crouch down to her and hold the camera up, cropping out Shea’s entire left side. That’s the best angle. That’s the right shot.

“You want to make a video? Now?” I hear the disbelief in Shea’s voice. But I don’t have time for convincing. I have one eye on the comments section. Devo has veered out of control, calling for TikTok to stop broadcasting our content. Challenging hackers to trace our location.

And then there are the texts from Helen. Ten, eleven of them. Somehow, she’s found out Shea’s name.

Just stay right there at the cabin, Nora. What have you done? On my way.

I keep my voice even. I need to stay steady for Shea. “I don’t want to alarm you,” I say calmly. “It’s been an emotional morning. But there’s commenters calling for you to get canceled. They want a trigger warning for violence. Let’s give them twenty seconds, tops. Just something to reassure our followers. We’ll show that you’re just fine and that our partnership is strong.”

Shea considers it. “They’ll just tear this one apart too.” She shakes her head, sounding dejected. “I don’t know if I can stand to see it anymore. We need an unexpected feature—something to drive views hard.”

“We could go live?” I say it and know that’s exactly what we need to do. It will prove that Shea’s just fine, that what we’re doing here for the channel is meant to benefit both of us. It will reestablish the two of us as collaborators, co-creators.

I haven’t trusted Shea enough. I see that now. That has almost undone our partnership—all my efforts. I work as fast as I can. I unlatch Shea from the rig and attach us together at our wrist. This closes the distance between us, connects us once again. In the front pocket of my hoodie, both phones vibrate against each other. It feels like a flood of notifications, a tidal wave of public commentary crashing over us.

I have to look. I need to see what they’re all saying. I tap the screen. At first glance, I don’t believe it, so I spread my fingers across the tiny display. As if increasing the font size might magically transform the messaging: Packwood, Washington. Somehow, they’ve found the closest town to us. Below that Devo writes Hold on, Shea. Stay strong and then Othergirl, we’re coming for you.