It’s a beautiful morning. Hangovers abound, so it’s mine and mine alone.

I stay in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling, my mind blank. Empty. That sounds depressing, but it’s not. Sometimes you can think too much. I actually made myself sick the first three days after because I had thoughts bigger than the space that contained them and too many of them were happening at once. Sometimes the quiet is good. Most times not, but just for now, in this tiny moment where the sun is edging up the sky, it’s okay.

And then I get out of bed.

I get out of bed and I get dressed.

I get out of bed and I get dressed and I go downstairs and I find a piece of blank paper and I fold it into a card. I stare at the empty space inside of it for a long time.

I grab a pen.

I’m sorry for your loss.

Eddie Reeves.

I hate when people say that to me, but this feels different because I’m the one writing it. It’s more important. I want him to know it’s not just me, that I know he must be in pain too.

That I understand.

I find Culler’s address on the envelope he sent us. I tuck my card into a new envelope and address it to him, stamp it, and then leave the house on my bike and mail it.

When I get back, Beth is awake. She’s making some complicated puke-green smoothie and she winces every time she pulses the blender. Every time she takes the lid off to see how it’s coming along, she covers her mouth like she’s going to barf. She does this so many times, I sit at the table and just watch, crossing my fingers that she’ll vomit everywhere, just suffer some gross indignity while I’m there to witness it.

It doesn’t happen.

When she finally acknowledges my presence she says, “There’s a message on the answering machine.”

“So?”

“So listen to it.”

I walk over to the phone and press the play button. It doesn’t occur to me that I should prepare myself for what I’m about to hear, even though Beth is the one who told me about it. Half of me is thinking maybe it’s Culler. I don’t know why. It’s not.

“Uhm, hello Reeves family! This is Maggie Gibbard, at the studio. We have some things of Seth’s here that we think you might want to come down and get … as soon as possible. It’s just, we’re in the process of renting the space again and we don’t want anything lost in the shuffle. Also, we’ll need the key back. Okay, please call us so we can figure this out. Thanks.”

I stare at it.

“I don’t think,” Beth says carefully, pouring the green smoothie into a very tall glass, “your mother needs to hear that.”

I’m going to pretend I don’t know what’s coming next.

“You could get down to Delaney, couldn’t you? Milo could drive you or something? Get his things, return the key, drive back…”

Before I can tell Beth exactly what I think of that idea, Mom comes into the room. In Dad’s housecoat. Her lips are a thin line on her pale face and her eyes are as sad as they always are. She’s back to being a zombie. Beth hands her the green drink and gives me a look.

I delete the message from the answering machine.