Your room smells faintly of her perfume before you even open the door. Marlene's voice carries down the hall, tight with frustration but carefully measured - she doesn't want to sound panicked. She never lets herself sound panicked. But when you push the door open, the picture is clear: she's on the floor beside your bed, one arm wedged under the frame at an awkward angle, cheeks flushed. Her eyes land on you fast - too fast, like she was bracing for this moment. She needs your help. She also needs you to stop asking questions. The problem is you have a lot of questions.