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“Code red.”
It’s all Fatin says when Dot picks up the phone, but it’s enough - the words are like a shot of adrenaline. Dot springs up from the couch where she was lazily watching a morning rerun of Survivor, and suddenly she’s wide awake, mind sharp, nerves jittery with urgency.
“Who?” she asks as she turns off the TV.
“Leah.”
Dot curses under her breath. That’s the worst scenario, the one they were all afraid of. Nora and Rachel are together in NYC, Shelby, Martha and Toni in Minnesota, and Dot and Fatin in Los Angeles. In case of a crisis - because the experiment is still fucking with their heads, even a whole year after their rescue - they all have people close by. But Leah is alone in the Bay right now, in her parents’ empty house. “I said she needed to stay with us the whole summer, I fucking told her --”
“Dot,” Fatin interrupts her. “Rant later.” Her voice is muffled, like her mouth is far from her phone, and there’s the distant but familiar noise of LA traffic in the background. Dot, who is now pacing the length of the living-room - seven steps, turn around at the couch, seven steps the other way, face the window, turn around, repeat - stops in her tracks.
“You’re in your car,” she says, “Fatin… are you…?”
“I’m driving up to the Bay,” Fatin confirms. “If I leave now, I’ll be there in about six hours.”
“Is it really that bad?” Dot murmurs, and she’s horrified to realize her voice is trembling, a little. Fear seizes her chest. She’s acutely aware of what can happen when Leah loses it.
“Yeah.” Fatin’s voice cracks. It would be imperceptible to anybody else’s ears, probably, but Dot knows her inside and out, so she notices. “It’s bad. She’s--”
She gulps, and Dot steels her nerves, pushes the fear all the way down, and starts making plans. “Okay, I’ll buy you six hours. You just focus on driving. I got it.”
Fatin exhales, and even through the phone, Dot can tell she’s relieved. “Thanks.”
“You know it. Don’t drive too fast, be safe. You can’t help Leah if you crash your car.” She pauses, wondering what Fatin needs to hear from her. “She’ll be okay,” she adds, trying her best to sound reassuring. “She’s strong, you know she is. And she’s about to get half a dozen people all up in her business. None of us will let anything happen to her before you get there and bring her back from the edge.” Dot exhales. “But as soon as she’s safe and sound, I’m giving her the scolding of a lifetime, just so you know.”
Fatin snorts. “Oh yeah, please lecture her as long as you want about the buddy system, she deserves it.” A beat. “Okay, getting on the freeway now. I got a giant iced coffee, two redbulls, and that Spotify playlist Rachel made to get us to exercise that’s like ten hours of ABBA remixes, so I’m set. Keep me updated if anything changes.” And then, softly, before she hangs up: ”Thanks, Dorothy.”
Dot, without wasting a second, gets to work. It’s instinct, almost, a habit drilled into all of them by three months spent relying on each other, and only each other, to keep the eight of them safe, and sane, or as safe and sane as possible. They've had to put Leah on a watchlist numerous times, but not just her - it’s happened to all of them, at least once, even if only for a few hours. So Dot knows what to do, what to say when she contacts the others. And they all react instantly, just like they used to on the island, except instead of sitting around the campfire and saying things like I’m free but I’m scheduled for the waterfall later or I can’t right now, I’m on firewood duty, they send texts - I have physical therapy till late but I can take the last shift or I’m at home all afternoon let me know when to call her - and Dot’s heart feels full, despite her anxiety, because all of them answer the call, without hesitation ; all of them want to help ; all of them care.
She sends everyone the plan, including Fatin - a shift rotation, neat and professional. And then she calls Leah.
Leah picks up after the first ring. “Dot,” she gasps, as if drowning, as if she’d been waiting for a lifeline.
“I know,” Dot says, calmly. “I know. You’re gonna be okay. Are you at home?”
“Yes, but I… Fuck. Fuck. I should have listened to you. I’m such a fucking idiot.”
“Hey, none of that. It doesn’t matter right now, okay?” Leah doesn’t answer, but Dot hears her ragged breathing over the phone. “Leah, go to the kitchen.”
“I can’t move.”
“Yes, you can,” Dot counters, patiently. “Come on. Kitchen.”
“Why?” Leah whines, sullen, stubborn.
Dot huffs out a sigh, playfully exasperated. “Oh my God, you know what would make my life easier? If all of you fuckers could stop being so difficult every time you have a problem. Imagine if instead of arguing every single thing I tell you to do y’all would just do it.”
That brings out a small, but genuine laugh out of Leah and Dot, feeling slightly lighter, keeps talking to her as Leah goes down the stairs and into her parents' kitchen.
“Pour yourself a glass of water. Drink it.” She listens to the rush of water running in the sink, the dampened sound of Leah swallowing, the harsh clink of glass against the marble counter. “Okay, good. Now open your fridge and tell me what we’re working with.”
She walks Leah through making an omelet. It’s slow, and tedious, because Leah’s hands are shaking badly, and she has to pause and close her eyes and breathe whenever the panic gets too intense, but at least Dot gets her to eat something, and that’s one item off her checklist.
*
Shelby is drying dishes when her phone buzzes.
Dottie, 1:12 P.M. : ur on! i made her eat, she’s doing ok. keep her distracted.
She swallows, and clears her throat, fidgeting with the kitchen towel, unsure how to ask, but Mrs Blackburn, besides her, only smiles. “Go on, sweetheart. I can finish on my own.”
“Thank you,” Shelby says and, impulsively, she throws her arms around the older woman in a quick hug, before running off to the backyard. She’s forever grateful to Martha’s parents for taking her in for the summer, especially since they already knew Toni would be staying with them as well.
The heat is oppressive today, and she’s glad she’s wearing shorts, and a tank top she stole from Toni’s wardrobe. She sits down, cross-legged, in the shade, under the oldest chestnut tree, on a patch of dry grass, and presses the call button.
“Shelby?” Leah says, when she answers. Her voice is a bit gravelly, like maybe she’s been trying not to cry. “Is that you? I didn’t expect --” She cuts herself off. “Dot told you?”
“Hi!” Shelby says, keeping her tone light. “She mentioned you weren’t feelin’ too well, so here I am! Is it a good time to chat?”
Leah lets out a dry chuckle. “I mean, not at all, but there is no way I’m getting rid of you, is there?”
“Nope, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” Shelby pauses, hesitating briefly. Dot said to keep Leah distracted, but she has to ask, just in case. “Leah,” she says, in a soft, serious tone. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
“I, um, I just...” Leah swallows, audibly. “I’m sorry, I can’t… I don’t--” She cuts herself off. “Fuck.”
“It’s alright,” Shelby soothes her, “you don’t have to. It’s okay.” She gives Leah a minute to calm down, and then she tries again, her voice bright, but gentle, careful not to spook her. “Hey, what do you say we play a few games, you and me?”
Leah groans.
“Come on,” Shelby insists. “It will be fun!”
“For you, maybe.”
“Well, indulge me, I’m bored, and I miss you. We haven’t talked in a while. Am I not allowed to want to have a bonding moment with one of my best friends?”
Leah stays silent for a long time, and Shelby’s heart speeds up. “Leah? You there?”
“Okay,” Leah whispers. “Fine.”
There’s something in her voice - something faintly strained, troubled - and Shelby can tell it’s getting bad again, can tell Leah is battling her own mind right now, and so she braces herself, and enters the fray. She can't fight this in Leah's stead - and she would, oh she would, if only she could - but she can lend Leah her strength, her voice, and pray that it helps. She will not lose another friend.
She starts them off with “Would you rather”, which goes pretty well - she even succeeds in making Leah laugh once. Eventually, she transitions to a variety of “If you could” questions, and then finishes with what she knows is Leah’s favorite of all her games, “Describe with one word”. She has so many of these icebreakers, collected over all the years she spent in various youth groups, that she never has to pause, never lets Leah alone with her own thoughts for more than a second.
And she knows Leah is only half-listening, but she still answers every silly thing Shelby asks her, and that’s all Shelby needs: for Leah to keep talking, each of Shelby’s questions like a thin string, one of many, keeping Leah connected to reality, to her.
*
Nora, 3:20 P.M : Go on discord.
Nora, 3:20 P.M : I have to tell you something.
Nora puts down her phone and waits, sitting still at her desk, in her quiet bedroom. The house is silent - Rachel has physical therapy, their parents are still at work. Nora’s laptop is open before her, mid-afternoon sunlight streams through her window, and she feels oddly calm.
Leah’s username, on the right side of the Discord app, suddenly pops up in the online list. Nora clicks open her direct messages with Leah, and types:
I’ve been thinking about the moon lately.
Leah’s answer is exactly what she expects.
What.
Nora I can’t do your cryptic shit today.
Nora smiles. She’s become pretty fluent in reading Leah’s moods - well, all of their moods, really - and so she knows, despite the curt tone, that Leah wants to talk. That if Leah didn’t want to talk, she would have ignored her entirely. This is a good sign - as long as Leah isn’t lost in her own head, as long as she’s receptive to communication, it means she isn’t too far gone.
Did you know that the moon is 400 times smaller than the sun?
And yet, they both look the same size to our human eyes.
I just think it’s interesting.
She sends some images to illustrate her point - pictures and maps and a really cool hand-drawing. Leah is slow to answer this time, which she hopes means that she’s taking her time looking through the images. Eventually, words come up on her screen.
Okay.
What does this have to do with me?
Nora hesitates, for just a moment. She never quite got rid of the instinct to doubt herself, when it comes to her ability to hold a conversation - even with her friends - and so she wonders, fleetingly, if she’s got it all wrong, if Leah is going to get mad, if the green dot on her Discord username will blink out as soon as Nora explains herself. Still, she forces herself to keep going.
It’s about perspective.
She pauses, chews on her lower lip, and lets her fingers fly on the keyboard.
I know you’re having a bad day. A very bad day. I thought it would help if we could talk about perspective. Because all those terrible things you are thinking about, all these bad feelings, I’m sure they seem as big as the sun, but in reality, they are 400 times smaller. Like the moon. It’s just hard to tell from your perspective, with your human eyes.
There’s a pause. Nora watches as the message leah is typing appears, disappears, appears again, at the bottom of the screen, but she’s patient. There’s no rush. Leah can take all the time she needs, as long as she stays online.
I don’t know what to say to that.
How do I change my perspective?
Why should I trust your eyes, anyway? Aren’t you just as human as me?
Nora grins.
On planet Leah, no, I am an alien.
This time the reply is immediate.
???
Ok I get that you’re trying to help me like everyone else, but yours is by far the weirdest method.
Like I don’t get the point but I’ve also not felt like tearing off my skin in the past ten minutes, so maybe you’re doing something right.
Nora types back:
Let’s work on your perspective, Leah.
She spends the next forty or so minutes asking questions, letting Leah describe, meticulously, the thoughts and images filling her brain, like a scientist describes a specimen, dissects a cadaver, to better understand its nature. And Leah doesn’t get better, really. But Nora takes comfort in the fact that she doesn’t get worse.
*
As soon as Toni is done with her shift at the coffee shop, she hangs up her apron, walks out the back door, the one that leads to a narrow alleyway, locates her favorite seat - an upturned plastic crate that used to contain bananas - and sits down, legs stretched out in front of her. It’s now almost 4 P.M., central time, and thankfully, the day has gotten a bit cooler. She doesn’t check the few texts she’s gotten from Shelby and Nora - no time - and instead opens her FaceTime app, and calls Leah.
“Hey,” Toni says, when Leah’s face appears on her screen.
“Hey.”
Leah looks terrible, even in the dubious quality of the FaceTime video. She’s paler than usual, jaw clenched, brow furrowed. There’s something harsh in her eyes, something stubborn and angry in the jut of her chin.
“Just got off work,” Toni says, casually, “and I’m waiting for Martha to be done too, so I thought I’d call you. Fuck, my feet are fucking killing me.”
“Hm,” Leah says, and absolutely nothing else.
Oh, monosyllabic Leah. That’s never good. See, there’s nothing Toni loves more than making fun of how much Leah can fucking talk - affectionately, of course, it’s pretty endearing once you get used to it - but the truth is that Leah is always at her scariest when she gets silent. That’s when the real bad decisions happen.
“How you doing? How was your day?” Toni tries, nonetheless, just in case she’s wrong.
Leah’s eyes flash. She scoffs. “You don’t need to do that. Pretend you don’t know what’s going on. I know you’ve all been talking about me.”
“‘Kay, so that answers my question.”
“I’m fine.”
“Nah, Leah, come on. You’re pissed.” Leah bites her lip, and glares, but Toni is, frankly, nonplussed. She gestures at herself. “You know who you’re talking to, right? I’m, like, the expert on anger. Whatever you got going on, it’s not gonna scare me. Talk to me, dude.”
“I am fine,” Leah repeats. God, she’s so fucking stubborn. Takes one to know one, and all that, and Toni would be impressed, if she hadn’t spent the whole day worrying about her.
“Spit it out, for real, or I’m gonna have to start making random guesses, and this is gonna be humiliating for both of us.”
“Yeah, okay, I’m angry!” Leah yells, suddenly, and now she’s up, pacing in her bedroom. Toni nods, encouragingly. “I’m fucking angry, because -- it’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair?”
“It’s not fair that the island made all of you guys, like, better. Shelby gets to fucking come out, and Fatin figures out who she wants to be, and you, I don’t know, work on your anger management bullshit, and Martha finds some catharsis or whatever, and --”
“Rachel loses a hand,” Toni interjects, drily, but Leah isn’t listening.
“-- and all it did was make me worse.”
Right. Toni doesn’t waste her time correcting Leah’s wild assumptions about the rest of them - it wouldn’t do any good, Leah's in no state to have a nuanced conversation, not when she’s been losing her shit for half a day, hanging by a thread. And Toni knows from experience that there’s nothing more frustrating, less productive, than being lectured while you’re lashing out.
“How did it make you worse?” she asks, simply, instead.
“In every way!” Leah explodes. “I came back with a brain even more fucked-up than it already was. Sometimes I can’t tell what’s real or not, and then I spend a whole day, like today, completely useless, two seconds away from bashing my head against a wall just to get some fucking peace. I’m sick of it, I’m sick of having all of you keeping tabs on me like I’m-- like I can’t deal on my own.”
“You can’t.”
Leah opens her mouth, outraged, and for a small, but terrifying moment, Toni fears that she’s gonna throw her phone away or something equally dumb. But no. Leah’s eyes narrow, and she spits out, looking straight at the camera, “Fuck you.”
“Right back at ya.” Toni shrugs. “Told you anger doesn’t scare me. And I’ll say it again: you can’t deal on your own.”
“You f--”
“I can’t either,” Toni interrupts her before she can finish what was definitely not going to be a term of endearment. “None of us can deal on our own, Leah, and you’re smart enough to know that.” She cocks her head, and meets Leah’s furious eyes on her phone screen. “Remember last month? When you and Fatin talked me down from a panic attack while Shelby and Martha were out shopping? Do you think you shouldn’t have helped me out? That I should have handled it on my own?”
“No,” Leah murmurs, “of course not.” She averts her eyes, and her mouth trembles, and Toni’s heart aches for her. “But this is different.”
“No, it’s not,” Toni retorts, gently. She hears the back door opening, and when she glances up, Martha is walking out of the coffee shop, waving at her. Toni focuses back on Leah, as Martha approaches. “It’s not different, because we love you just as much as you love us. You get that, right?”
Leah’s teeth sink into her lip. She’s still refusing to look at Toni, and there’s still frustration in her expression, but Toni can tell the worst of her rage has passed.
“Martha’s here,” Toni says. “But before I’m letting you talk to her, we’re gonna do some of the stuff my therapist taught me, you know, for my anger management bullshit.” She smiles, so Leah knows she’s only teasing.
“Okay,” Leah agrees, shakily, after a breath. “Okay.”
*
When they’re done with the last breathing exercise, Martha takes the phone from Toni’s hand, and beams at Leah.
“Hi! It’s so good to see your face! We both miss you so much, Leah!”
“Speak for yourself,” Toni mumbles next to her. Martha thrusts an elbow into her side to shut her up. Leah stays silent. She looks tired - hollow, like all of her energy has been spent keeping herself together, and there’s nothing left inside her.
“Do you want to tell me about your day, or do you want to hear about mine?” Martha asks. She uses her special voice, the one that works best to calm even the most skittish of the rescue dogs, at the animal shelter. No abrupt pause, low tone, very little inflexion.
“Neither,” Leah says, monotone. “I want to get off the phone and go to sleep.”
Martha’s pulse quickens, and she feels Toni’s body tense, beside her, thankfully out of frame. No way. They can’t leave her alone, she knows that. It’s the most dangerous thing Leah could do.
“I’m sorry,” she says, still soft, but a bit on edge, “but that’s not an option.”
“Martha,” Leah begs quietly. “Please just let me hang up.”
Toni’s hand finds hers, and, drawing strength from her familiar touch, Martha looks Leah in the eye. “No.” This time, her voice is firm, and she’s kinda proud of it, even though Leah’s face falls, and she seems so miserable, it makes the lump in Martha’s throat grow bigger.
“We’re not letting you hang up,” Martha insists, because she needs Leah to understand. “I’m not letting you go, okay?” Leah looks like she’s about to protest, so Martha speaks before she can: “I know it’s hard, but you’ve done so well. You’ve been so brave. You can’t give up now.”
Leah closes her eyes. “I just want to stop feeling that way,” she says, defeated. “I’m so tired. Too tired to fight it.”
Martha swallows. “I know. I won’t ask you to do anything, okay? Only to not hang up. You don’t have to talk, even. Just listen to my voice. You can keep your eyes closed.”
Leah nods. Her eyes stay shut. Martha starts talking, and she doesn’t stop for a long time, still in that same special voice, slow, and steady, eyes on the gaunt face of her friend, sitting in a dirty alleyway, on a late summer afternoon. She talks about her day. She talks about what it’s like to have Toni and Shelby here - how wonderful, to be spending the summer with two of her best friends, even though they keep disappearing in her father’s toolshed to make out. She talks about working with Toni at the coffee shop to earn a few bucks, while Shelby helps out at the house. She talks about her family - her brother on a road trip across the midwest, her little sisters and the million things they do that annoy her, her grandma, who always asks Martha to dance for her, the complicated state of her relationship with her parents.
When Toni squeezes her hand, holding out her watch to show her the time, Martha can’t believe it’s only been fifty minutes. She feels like she’s been talking for days. Leah’s face hasn’t changed - which is both a relief, and pretty scary.
“Leah?” she asks gently. “I’m gonna go now, but you have to promise me you’ll pick up when Rachel calls you in five minutes. Can you do that?”
Leah breathes out, painfully. Martha waits. Only when Leah opens her eyes and promises, out loud, does Martha hang up.
*
“Stop that.”
Leah’s hand freezes. Rachel watches as she stops plucking her eyebrow, only to start pulling at a strand of her hair, hard enough that Rachel winces.
“Leah. I said stop it.”
“I need it,” Leah whispers, but she stops, as she’s done every single time Rachel has told her so, in the past hour. Instead, she brings her thumb to her teeth, and chews on her nail. Rachel sighs. Fine, she’ll allow that. Gotta pick your battles to win a war, after all - and this particular war has been going on for too long not to let Leah get away with some stuff. Like biting her nails.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Leah mumbles, almost too low for Rachel to hear. She shifts, and briefly fidgets with the angle of her laptop, moving it so only the top half of her body shows on camera. “I can’t --” She inhales. “I can’t wait much longer.”
“She’ll be here soon,” Rachel says. She hopes Leah doesn’t notice how tired she sounds. It’s been a hard day, between all the worrying about Leah, and a difficult session of physical therapy - and the past hour in particular has been exhausting. Part of Rachel wants to lay her head on her pillow and pass out, but she can’t leave, not before Fatin gets there, not before she knows for sure that Leah is in safe hands.
She stifles a yawn, eyes fluttering close, and rolls to her side on top of the bedsheets, her head resting on her prosthetic hand. When she looks back at the Skype video, Leah’s fingers are already at her eyebrow, twisting and pulling.
“Leah, for fuck’s sake!”
“Sorry,” Leah says, hoarsely. She clenches her hand into a fist, presses her knuckles against the apple of her cheek. She doesn’t sound sorry, she sounds like she’s choking back tears.
Rachel softens. “You can cry, if you want to. You know I don’t care.”
“Don’t want to,” Leah lies, blatantly.
“Hmm.”
But Rachel doesn’t insist. She understands all too well the need to cling to any shred of dignity, when everyone you care about has seen you at your most vulnerable. Honestly, at this point she doesn’t care what Leah does or doesn’t do, as long as she’s not hurting herself. Which she’s been trying to do, despite Rachel telling her off for it, the whole time they’ve been skyping.
A muscle twitches in Leah’s face. Rachel frowns, narrowing her eyes at the screen of her laptop. It happens again. A minuscule movement, but unmistakable: it’s a flinch of pain, and Rachel sighs.
“Show me your other hand.”
“Why?”
“You know why, Leah, come on. I’m not a fool.”
Leah shakes her head, wordlessly. “Please,” she blurts out. “You know what it’s like. You know, Rachel, you’re the same. I need this.”
And Rachel grits her teeth. She does know. They’ve talked about it, Leah and her, about the paradox of seeking relief through pain, through deprivation, about the deceiving illusion of control it gives them, and how addictive it can be. And though she’d love nothing more than to let Leah have some form of comfort, let her ease her suffering, she won’t let her regress. If their roles were swapped, if she were the one begging Leah, she’s well aware that Leah would do the exact same thing.
“I need this,” Leah repeats.
Rachel, inflexible, hardens her expression. “Tough shit. I want to see both your hands, right now. Stop stalling.” Leah complies, jerkily, eyes darkening in frustration. “Don’t give me that look,” Rachel says, warningly. “Your girlfriend is gonna be here any time now. You really want her to find you doing whatever you were just doing to yourself?”
Silence on the other end. Leah lets the back of her head fall against the wall behind her, and doesn’t answer, but she keeps both hands in sight, and that’s what matters.
“Thank you,” Rachel breathes out. Leah doesn’t react, and for a few minutes there’s only silence, until her phone buzzes with a notification.
Fatin, 7:15 P.M. : be there in 5 let her kno im coming
“Speaking of the devil herself,” she says, and she can’t help the smile stretching her lips as relief floods her chest. “Guess who just texted me?”
*
As soon as she’s parked the car in Leah’s driveway, Fatin runs. She doesn’t bother ringing the bell. She opens the door with the spare key hidden under a tiny potted succulent and barges through, taking the stairs two by two, until she reaches Leah's room, breathless, exhausted from her long drive, pulse gone wild at her throat from the explosive cocktail of fear and too much caffeine.
Leah is sitting on the floor, curled in a ball. Her laptop is still open, in front of her, but the screen is black. She looks up and their eyes meet across the room.
“Fatin,” she croaks out, and then she starts crying, and Fatin drops to her knees, gathers her in her arms, fighting back her own tears, and presses her nose into Leah's hair. “I’m here,” she says, feeling Leah’s body shake as she sobs. “I’m here,” she repeats, again, and again. “I’m here.”
When the tears subside, Fatin runs her a bath, and climbs into the bathtub with Leah, sits behind her in the hot soapy water. Leah leans against her, drowsy, and lets Fatin wash her, pliant in Fatin’s hands, docile and drained. Afterwards, Fatin gets them both into clean, comfy clothes, and brings Leah a cup of chamomile tea, and some crackers.
“This was one of the worst episodes I’ve ever had,” Leah says, breaking the silence. They’re both lying on Leah’s bed, side by side. She’s looking at the ceiling, but Fatin is looking at her. Fatigue makes her vision hazy, blurs out the familiar lines of Leah’s face.
“What triggered it?”
“No idea. I woke up from a dream about the bunker, and suddenly I couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. It felt like everything was fake, like there were people watching me, sand on my skin… ” Leah shivers. “And it wouldn’t stop.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to try meds again?”
Leah winces. “I hate the way they make me feel.”
“Alright.” Fatin grabs her hand. “But I’m driving your ass back to LA tomorrow. You’re staying with me and Dorothy, at least until your parents come back from their trip.” Leah opens her mouth to speak, and Fatin beats her to it. “No, I don’t wanna hear any arguments. No complaints. This is, like, a legit intervention, okay? I can’t worry about you like that, ever again.” Fatin’s voice has grown urgent, despite her best efforts to remain calm, erring on the side of begging, which is a rare enough phenomenon that they're both clearly surprised by it. “Leah, I know I can’t actually force you to come with me, but --”
“I wasn’t going to argue,” Leah cuts her off. She smiles, and it’s sincere, albeit tired. “I don’t wanna go through that again either.”
“Oh.” Fatin blinks. Leah’s fingers tighten around hers. “Okay, good. Glad I don’t have to kidnap you and spend the rest of my life running from the FBI.”
A silence. Fatin rubs small circles on the back of Leah's hand. “Is everyone mad at me?” Leah asks, eventually, in a small voice.
“Nobody’s mad.” Fatin pauses. “Well, Dot might be, kinda. You should probably prepare for an I told you so. Or twelve.”
Leah hesitates, then turns her head so she can look at Fatin. “Are you? Mad at me?”
“Baby, of course not. Never. I could never be mad at you.”
Leah smiles, a little. “I’ll remind you of that next time you get all cranky at me in the morning.”
“Hey!” Fatin pokes her in the ribs. “That doesn’t count. I can’t be held accountable for anything I do or say before dawn.”
“Fatin, 9 A.M. isn’t dawn,” Leah laughs, softly, before growing serious again. “I can’t believe you drove all the way from LA. Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me. It’s what we do for each other, right? You would have done the same for me. For any of us.”
It’s early in the evening, still, but Leah falls asleep soon after that, curled into Fatin’s body, her face tucked in the crook of Fatin’s neck, and Fatin, before sleep takes her as well, texts the other girls to let them know Leah’s okay.
It takes a village, Nora texts back, wise as always.
She’s right, of course. And Fatin has never been more grateful for this village of eight.