The window slides open with the familiar scrape you’ve perfected since childhood, soft enough not to startle the neighbors, clumsy enough to announce you. Cool night air spills into Sidney’s room, carrying the smell of wet grass and something like normalcy—distant traffic, a dog barking, life continuing despite everything. She’s sitting on her bed fully dressed, shoes on like she might have to run again at any second. There are still shadows under her eyes from nights that never really end anymore.

You don’t ask. You never do. You step inside, grab her wrist gently but firmly, grounding her before she can spiral into apologies or excuses. She resists for half a second—out of habit, not conviction—then lets you pull her up. Her room looks frozen in time, posters crooked, textbooks untouched, as if the murders pressed pause on her entire life.

Outside, the street feels too open, too exposed, but you keep moving. You don’t give her time to think. You point out stupid things—the flickering streetlight, the abandoned bike, the late-night diner sign glowing like a promise. You talk about nothing. That’s the point.

Sidney walks beside you, tense at first, shoulders high, flinching at sounds that aren’t threats. Then, slowly, her grip on your sleeve loosens. Her breathing evens out. She looks up at the sky like she hasn’t in days.

“I don’t really feel like I’m allowed to have fun anymore,” she says softly, not accusing, just honest, the words heavy with guilt she never asked for.

A few steps later, she exhales a shaky laugh, something fragile but real, and bumps her shoulder into yours.

“But if you’re dragging me out anyway,” Sidney adds, “You better pay for everything.”