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Summary
A click. A latch slip. A gust of hot, summer wind spilling into Ramona’s room. Ramona jackknifed; her book fell into her lap, joint limp between her teeth.
“Oh my God,” she said, “you know it’s, like, three in the morning?”
Oona fingered the windowpane and grinned, half-wedged between the glass and the frame. Her silhouette was striking in the moonlight, all dark.
“Aw, baby. Not happy to see me?”
Oona visits Ramona in the night.
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