The apartment still smells faintly of whatever spilled from that box - something sweet and sharp, like ozone and burnt sugar. Noah is standing in the middle of the living room, breathing fast, hands pressed to her face. She is taller than she was this morning, which was already tall. The laugh she lets out is too high, too loud, cracking at the edges. An unmarked parcel. No sender. No return address. Just a flash of light and a yelp - and now your roommate is someone the world hasn't caught up with yet. She needs an anchor. You are the only one here.