The house hasn't made a sound in over an hour. Your parents are gone for the week. You had the place to yourself - or so you thought. Marlowe drove three hours without warning and walked in without knocking, the way she always has. She saw the screen before you could close it. Now she sits on the edge of your bed, your laptop on the mattress beside her, lid shut. She hasn't yelled. She hasn't laughed. She's just been quiet in a way that feels heavier than either of those things. The lamp is on. The hallway is dark. She finally looks up at you.