10: Monday
Sitting behind my desk at 8:00 Monday morning, my mind drifts back to the spacious penthouse above Wayne Foundation. I can picture the owner still sleeping, sprawled out on the couch. I stifle a gigantic yawn, and wish desperately that I had a trust fund to fall back on. Instead I find myself coming in to work like usual, despite having spent the entire night chasing Batboy across Gotham. Everything is back to normal. Well, as normal as it's going to get. I'm down in archives, Mr. Fox is on the top floor with Earle's job, and life reverts back to routine as best it can. It'll be a nasty shock for Earle when he finally shows up today.
I pop open my daily checklist and briefly wonder why there isn't a 'nap' option. Yet, however tempting a nap may be, I'm no longer working overtime, so I had better get something done in the next couple hours. Especially since I now seem to be the head of two departments. How ironic that I moved up in the world by taking over the basement.
For ten minutes I debate over whether or not I should archive all the information I gained last night. My insights are not complete, of course. There was no time for explanations. Tonight, when I see Bruce again, I will ask him to make good on his promise. Of course, that's assuming I'll see him again tonight. Should I make such presumptuous assumptions?
Eventually I decide to label the information under "Batboy" and classify everything as strictly confidential, only for Bruce Wayne's eyes. Feeling a surge of excitement, I create the database file. I am adding a new chapter to the Wayne legacy. While writing, I make sure to highlight the gaps in the timeline which Bruce will need to fill. After a few hours of typing, I'm left with fifty new files and a plot riddled with holes.
No wonder I spent most of this past week confused. In an attempt to clear things up, I retype my basic timeline in checklist form:
Meet Bruce Wayne - be unforgivably annoying,
Encounter Bruce Wayne on streets disguised as a bum,
Teach Bruce Wayne about extreme sports,
Tuesday night dinner at Earle's - Embarrass self with little white lies,
Dinner with Bruce Wayne in disguise ,
Get leverage on Carmine Falcone - for Bruce Wayne,
Get leverage for Carmine Falcone - on Jonathan Crane,
Friday night dinner at Gotham Hotel - meet 'Gotham's Prince',
Save overlarge bat creature on top of roof,
Cure Batboy of poison,
Discover Batboy's true identity via Applied Science's secrets,
Sunday night birthday party for Bruce Wayne - become the night's entertainment,
Help the butler pull Bruce Wayne out of his burning mansion,
Patch up a wounded Bruce Wayne,
Foolishly go to the narrows to save Sam,
Get on Alberto Falcone's bad side,
Get on Salvatore Maroni's good side,
Be banished from the Narrows,
Be dragged back to the batcave by Batboy
I print an old copy of my day's checklist and compare the two. Despairing, I ponder whether or not the random new additions will be a permanent problem. Perhaps I should just add a new box: 'Spend an indefinite amount of time being distracted by Bruce Wayne'. With a sheepish grin on my face, I watch my hands involuntarily type another line:
Fall for rich, arrogant playboy.
Oh dear.
"Lyn," a voice says cheerily.
"Mary!" I exclaim, wiping the stupid smile off my face while hastily deleting the last line.
"What's that?" she asks, glancing at my printed checklist.
"Nothing," I say, crumbling it up and tossing it in the trash, "Except…maybe it's time I invested in a planner."
"Took you long enough to figure that out. Here are the newspapers," Mary announces, tossing the stack on my desk, "Nothing interesting anyway. The big news won't be printed until tomorrow." She beams ecstatically at me.
"You have gossip?" I ask, feigning interest. Though honestly, I just need some time alone.
"Yes!" Mary gushes. She sits on my desk and excitedly prattles on about the troubles in the narrows. None of it matches what I experienced myself. As far as I know, Bruce cannot transform into a red-eyed bat beast and most definitely cannot rip apart iron rail supports with his bare hands, no matter how much muscle he has. During a break in her chatter, I subtly change the conversation to something that has been nagging me at the back of my mind for a while.
"Mary, you're a people person…," I begin.
She raises an eyebrow at me, "Yes?"
"How does one know if a guy is attracted to you?" I get out in a single breath, my face burning with embarrassment.
Mary squeals, "Who is it?"
"No one in particular…it's purely hypothetical," I wave off the question, regretting ever opening my mouth.
"Have you been friends with this guy for a while?" she asks, a knowing smile playing across her face.
"No, it's not Chad," I say, exasperated, "I only just met this guy last week."
"So there is a guy!" Mary exclaims, triumphant, "And obviously you've been thinking about him a lot…"
"He's been kind of unavoidable," I protest.
"Well…" Mary says, thinking hard, "When you're sad…is your greatest desire for him to wrap you in his arms and tell you everything will be okay?"
I blink at her.
"It was a little bit on impulse, but yeah I guess," I answer reluctantly.
"Lyn!" Mary says in shock, "Who is this mystery guy?"
"I'd rather not say."
"Do you get the feeling this person enjoys your company too?"
I pause in my work to think.
"He doesn't dislike me," I say, unsure, "He says I make him laugh."
"That could be a good or a bad thing," she says, "Did he mean it in a 'you are really weird' way or 'you are very funny' way?"
"Funny…I think," I say, smiling to myself.
"Do you live, breathe, and eat thinking about this person?" Mary asks dramatically, clasping her hands wistfully.
"Like I said, lately he's been around a lot," I say.
"So he works here!" Mary concludes excitedly.
"No!" I say, a little too fast.
Mary laughs, "Don't worry, I enjoy a challenging guessing game."
"It's no one you know," I insist, knowing this is a half truth.
The elevator pings behind Mary, interrupting our conversation. I quickly pull the stack of newspapers to me and begin shifting through them.
"Leave, I should be working!" I whisper urgently at Mary. She sighs huffily.
"Ok, but you're not off the hook this easily. I will figure this out!" She turns around just as the elevator doors open.
And out steps Bruce Wayne, looking very posh in a new suit and styled hair; as if he hadn't spent the entire night beating up bad guys to a pulp.
Mary swivels on her heel to face me, looking positively gleeful. Her eyes have a knowing gleam to them that doesn't bode well for me.
'Later!' she mouths, giving me a wink before gliding into the open elevator.
"She seems happy," Bruce says, smiling widely as he walks up to my desk.
"Unfortunately," I say miserably.
"Bad day?" he asks.
"Some of us need to go to work instead of sleeping in until…" I glance at the time, "12:42 in the afternoon."
"Some of us deserved the extra rest."
"Yeah, well, some of us can't afford to take a vacation even if they deserve it," I retort. Then, sighing, I add, "Please, let's not start this again."
Bruce laughs softly, "Actually I agree."
"With what?" I ask.
"Take a vacation," he says, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself, "You could…come help me clean my mansion."
I look up at him, trying to decide if he's joking.
"I could use a friend," Bruce adds, his face turning serious.
A friend.
"Sure," I say softly. Then a grin escapes, "Can't leave all that work for Alfred after all. It wouldn't be fair."
"Never," Bruce says, chuckling.
"And I believe you owe me an explanation," I add on the way up the elevator.
"I do," Bruce concedes, nodding.
As we leave Wayne Tower together I sneak a furtive glance at Mary. Upon seeing us together, she looks as if her birthday just came early. I shoot her a warning glare before following Bruce outside. I sigh, wondering how many new troubles I just brought upon myself.
"Maybe you should just go home and sleep," Bruce says, noticing my unusual solemnity. He holds the car door open for me. I slide into one the fancy vehicles I didn't dare touch yesterday, giving Alfred a cheerful hello.
After Bruce settles into his seat I warn him, "You are not slithering out of this. You will tell me everything, and I will archive it all in the basement of Wayne Tower for future generations."
Bruce smiles in that all-knowing way of his, and hands me a ream of paper. I take it, perplexed.
"How did you…" I trail off, speechless at the novel length record of events in front of me.
"You woke me up when you left," he says, "What else was I going to do with an extra four hours?"
"Thank goodness you didn't ask Mr. Earle for a job in the Archives," I say, flabbergasted, "I would be out on the street in a second."
"Everything's in there," he states, peering at me expectantly.
I briefly pause in my fascinated reading, "Of course," I say, "Thank you."
He dips his head generously.
"This is…amazing," I add. I slip the stack into my bag for later.
"If you have any questions…" he says quietly.
"I'll be sure to ask them in a private setting where we won't be overheard," I say, smiling.
Bruce's eyebrows shoot up, "Well, I was going to say you could call me, but your suggestion works too."
"Any excuse for some alone time with the Prince of Gotham, right?" I tease, laughing.
Bruce looks away, seemingly uncomfortable when confronted with his alter ego. Immediately I regret my playful jab.
"Did you see the article on page eight?" he asks, passing me the Gotham Daily.
I spread open the paper to find a huge photograph of Bruce's ruined home.
"Okay, maybe not so princely anymore," I say, but a smile twitches at the corners of my mouth.
"At least it helps my reputation," Bruce comments wryly.
"Indeed," Alfred interrupts, "Perhaps, sir, you should start an annual birthday tradition. Your reputation would be ensured."
Bruce chuckles, "I think burning down one's house is somewhat of a…once in a lifetime experience."
"I certainly hope so," I say, "Such a waste! Not to mention adding to the pollution. The narrows is bad enough as it is, thank you very much."
"Will you stay there?" Bruce asks, obviously concerned, "Even now, with all of Arkham loose."
"I don't know," I say, truthfully, "I need to go back at some point, if only to pick up what remains of my belongings. Not that Alberto Falcone left me much."
"I don't know if I was sympathetic enough last night, but…" Bruce says, "I'm sorry."
"I understand," I say, smiling, "And I'm glad to hear you say that. Because it'll cost Wayne Enterprises quite a bit of money in ink and paper for me to print all the digital copies of my sketchbooks down in archives.
Bruce's face breaks into a surprised smile, "You have copies?"
"Of everything," I say, "Not as good as the originals, but they'll do. I'll just have to start from scratch with that."
"Good," Bruce says, nodding, "You have my permission to use as much ink and paper as needed."
"Thank you," I reply, graciously.
"You're welcome."
A pause.
"So," I say, "Friday night…what happened?"
"Well, for starters I was not saving a sandwich," Bruce says, eyebrows furrowed, "But I was aware Detective Flass was regularly stealing from the vendor."
"And you left him money, yes I know that bit," I say, "But how were you poisoned?"
"Let me finish," he says, "I interrogated Flass to find out who the rest of Falcone's drugs were going to. He claimed not to know anything but through…aggressive questioning…it came out that the drop off point was in the narrows. From stories I'd heard about Jonathan Crane through my DA friend, you, and other sources, I got an idea that he was somehow involved. If I recall correctly, you mentioned seeing him near your apartment. So, I searched there first."
"I still don't understand how this connects with being poisoned…" I say.
"Crane sprayed me with a hallucinogenic toxin intended to induce panic. A large dosage can be potentially fatal."
"So Crane was up to something fishy!" I say triumphantly.
"Yes, you were right to suspect him. Falcone was the pawn this time."
My excitement at being proved correct dissipates. I turn away, remembering the true reason why I was researching Crane.
"And Crane was the cause of the insanity last night?" I ask, staring out the window.
"The cause, but not the brains behind the operation," he responds.
"Who…?"
"Ra's Al Gul," Bruce says, bitter disappointment filling his voice, "My old mentor. He betrayed Gotham…again. The drug was meant to force Gotham to destroy itself through panic."
"Your old mentor? Do you think you could elaborate?" I ask probingly.
"During my traveling days," he says evasively.
"You promised a full explanation," I push.
He looks at me, an amused expression on his face.
"Fine," he says, grinning slightly.
"Start from the beginning," I say.
For the rest of the ride to Wayne Manor, I'm treated to a fantastical story of Bruce's journey into the depths of the criminal underworld and eventually into the mountains. As he spins the tale, I watch his face intently. Relief, and a feeling of unburdening radiates from him.
How many people have insisted on hearing Bruce Wayne's full story?
By the time we reach the blackened, burned out hull that once was Wayne Manor, the narrative is complete. As we get out of the car I have one question remaining.
"All right," I say, "I know you have reasons behind this, because you hinted at it last night, but…what is so special about Chiropterans?"
"Simple," he says, grinning, "I'll show you."
I follow him down past the wreckage to a old, decrepit garden shed. The soot covered stone walls are all that remain. In the center stands a well, surrounded by burned weeds. I walk up to the well and lean over to see below.
"It leads to the cave, doesn't it?" I ask, turning back to Bruce. He's standing off to the side, watching me.
"I fell in when I was 8," he says, "The bats attacked."
"So you're…afraid of bats…" I laugh incredulously, "I don't believe you."
He just looks at me.
"You can't be serious," I say, "If it is true then…what…you thought you could overcome your fear by assuming the persona? What are you trying to prove, Bruce?"
"I'm not trying to prove anything," he says, coming to stand beside me at the well, "I have an irrational fear, and I find it entertaining that now mob bosses have the same."
"You really are afraid of bats," I state, staring at him wonderingly, "I can't believe it."
He raises an eyebrow, "I've learned to manage it."
"Clearly," I say, smiling.
"Master Wayne," Alfred says, entering the shed behind us with a large wheelbarrow, "The wood for the new cover."
"Thanks, Alfred," Bruce says, picking up a wooden plank and testing its strength. He positions it on top of the well.
"Why cover the hole up?" I ask.
"Can't have workmen falling into the cave," Wayne says, eyebrows furrowed in mock concern.
"Of course," I say, nodding in agreement, "I imagine discovering the Tumbler in a cave underneath the Wayne grounds would give the game away."
"Speaking of workmen," Alfred says, "The clean up and salvage crew are here. Shall I see them in?"
Bruce laughs, "I think that would be appropriate, yes."
Bruce drags a hammer and nail out from the wheelbarrow and proceeds to hammer the plank into place. Meanwhile, I explore the debris in the shed. Pulling up a rope half buried in the rubble, but still intact, I carry it over.
"Lower me down and I can start packing up the cave for you," I say, tying one end of the rope to a hook.
Bruce stares at me blankly.
"I assume you will not be coming back here to transform into Batman for a while," I say.
"True," Bruce says, thinking aloud, "Where am I going to set up a new base?"
I shrug, "Somewhere in Gotham would be convenient." I hand him the rope.
"Maybe I can convert the underground floors of Wayne Tower," he says, taking the rope in his strong grip.
"You better not," I warn, "Bad enough you blew up the car garage in front of the tower. A couple more feet and the archives would have been history. Not to mention you after I finished with you."
He laughs. I step up to the well, preparing to scale down the side.
"Wait," I say before I slip off the edge of the stones, "The other way up isn't blocked is it?"
"The stairs are still usable, Miss Pearl," Alfred says, coming up from behind us, "Just be careful not to let any workmen see you emerge."
I nod and kick off the wall. Once on the ground I look back up at the pinpoint of light outlining the heads of Bruce and Alfred.
"Should I load everything into the tumbler?" I call.
"You'll find a small storage compartment in the rear of the vehicle," Alfred yells down.
Bruce's head jerks towards the Butler's in question.
"Mr. Fox added a few design alterations at my request," Alfred explains to him, "Storage space always comes in handy."
I can see the silhouette of Bruce shaking his head before it disappears to be replaced with another wooden plank. I smile at the interaction between the two and begin to gather up the piles of tools in the cave. Organizing the randomly strewn equipment parts and supplies is slow work. I sort, box, and transport the stuff to the beat of Bruce's hammering. Occasionally I step below the hole in the ceiling and throw out a question of where something goes. Bruce's head briefly appears in the light, answers me, and then goes back to covering the well. Eventually I finish. The entire contents of the cave fit into Alfred's 'small' storage compartment. I tell Bruce so, leaning casually against the cave wall underneath the well.
"Alfred enjoys order," Bruce answers as he works, "I'm lucky he left the cave mess alone for this long."
"I can appreciate that," I say, smiling to myself.
"Not surprising," Bruce says. The hammering pauses. "I told you everything about myself," he says, "So how did you become an archivist?"
"Oh, pretty much the same story. Amazing adventures in the east and all that," I say jokingly.
"Sorry, that version is already taken," he says, resuming the hammering.
Bruce told me the entire reason behind his disappearance seven years ago…so why can't I bring myself to confide in the same way? A part of me wishes to tell him the truth. But the discreet part wins out in the end.
"I needed a job," I say simply, "And I came to the right place at the right time. Nothing special."
"Who had the job before you?"
"An old man who desperately wanted to retire," I reply, "He might have merely chosen me because I was the first applicant in years."
"His name?"
"Frederick Waltham. He was very kind. Showed me everything, and spent weeks of training with me before pronouncing me fit to run the archives. Of course, he was very odd as well. His happiest moments were spent with his nose buried in old books. But then the social recluses attracted to that sort of job often do tend to be a little bizarre."
"Social recluses?"
"Omitting me."
"I think Mary would disagree."
"You've been talking with Mary?" I demand.
"I believe someone advised me to learn the names of my employees."
"But you didn't have to gossip with them!" I argue, "What else did she have to say?"
"About you?" Bruce asks, "Mostly rumors concerning that Chad guy."
"I assure you Mary's gossip is nothing but rumors," I say, laughing in relief.
"I surmised as much," Bruce says dryly, "What did you do before coming to Wayne Enterprises?"
"Would you believe I was in Med School…" I say sardonically, "I dropped out. Decided I needed to take a more artistic path….besides other reasons." I trail off into silence. The subject of my leaving school being a rather touchy one for me.
The hammering stops and Bruce's head appears in the single bar of light.
"Last one," he says, "Come on up and we'll leave."
I nod up at him, smiling broadly. He returns the smile and drops the last plank in place, plunging me into darkness. I blindly feel my way to the wall, standing still for a minute to let my eyes adjust. I glance up at the well. Through the cracks I can see two shadows. The second, I assume, is Alfred.
Then I hear a woman's voice.
Curious, I strain to hear the conversation.
Unfortunately for me, curiosity killed the cat.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Rachel," Bruce says.
"I never stopped thinking about you…about us…" the woman, Rachel, says hesitantly.
At the sound of 'us' I look up in surprise. The couple above me are silent, merged into one shadow. I stagger backward. I suppose I should have known; known better than to entertain the notion of Bruce Wayne and….
My mind goes forcibly blank.
Feeling foolish, I wander over to the waterfall. Coming as close as possible without getting soaked, I let the falls play over my hands.
A mystery woman I've never even heard about shows up at Bruce's house and…well, perhaps I don't know him as well as I thought I did. My traitorous memory compels me to recall the number of times Bruce's 'DA friend' snuck into our conversations. Apparently 'Friend' may have been the wrong descriptor.
The slight clatter of scattered pebbles pulls me back to reality.
"Miss Pearl?" Alfred asks, joining me by the falls, "Did you get lost finding your way back?"
I stay silent, watching the cascade and the invisible figures I imagine intertwined.
"May I take you home, Miss Pearl?" Alfred asks again.
"I don't think home exists anymore, Alfred," I say frankly, thinking of the wreckage in the narrows.
"Then where will you go?" he asks kindly, but his tone makes it clear I'm not welcome back at the penthouse.
"I'll go to a friend's," I say, finding the old determination within me. I'm acting silly over a man I've known for little more than a week. The world did not end (though mostly because said man saved it), life will go on, and I will persevere, like always. Bruce may decide he only needs an assistant, a friend, at the moment, and that's what I'll have to be. Nothing more.
I turn my back on the waterfall and lead the way out.
An hour later I'm standing in front of Chad's apartment door, my school trunk propped up by my side. I knock on the door again, desperately hoping Chad is home since I told Alfred not to wait. The trunk contains the few meager belongings I can't stand to leave behind. I'm technically still renting the apartment in the narrows, but the area has become too dangerous for me to live there. So, leaving the majority of my stuff in the apartment, I turn to the one person I can always count on.
"Lyn?" Chad asks, looking confused. He's still wearing his work clothes, with his tie askew and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
"I need a place to crash for a while," I say, wheeling the trunk through his door, "Do you mind if I stay here?"
"No! N…not at all," Chad says. He steps back to let me in.
"Thanks," I say, "I'll be homeless until I can either move back into my place or find somewhere new." I slump onto one of Chad's counter stools and burry my head in my hands. Tears threaten to spill. I feel so tired and sore; too much to take in too soon.
"What happened?" Chad asks, moving around the counter and into the kitchen.
"Nothing specifically…" I say, attempting to avoid the barrage of questions Chad is sure to unleash.
"Lyn, you refused my offers of finding a new apartment or staying with me for years," Chad says, "And suddenly, out of the blue, you've decided it's a good idea? I don't think so." He leans against the counter across from me, trying to catch my eyes. "Tell me what happened," he repeats.
I feel my face burning, partially from embarrassment and partially from anger at myself. I can't tell Chad the truth.
"Does it have something to do with whatever happened in the narrows last night?" Chad prompts.
"Oh…yes!" I say, realizing I had a legitimate excuse all along, "All the Arkham inmates escaped. I've basically been ordered to stay away. Home is too dangerous now."
"Sam and Lawrence know what's best," Chad says, "And I agree. After the mass panic last night, I wouldn't step foot in the narrows even in the middle of the day." He moves away. I can hear him opening up the fridge and pulling down a glass from a cabinet. He pushes the glass towards me. I lift my head to see a full cup of chocolate milk in front of my face. In spite of my morose mood, I smile.
"Thank you," I say, sipping at the milk. Some people drown their sorrows in alcohol, I drown mine in chocolate milk.
He sighs, "I don't know what you got yourself caught up in, Lyn. But I wish you would tell me. Maybe I can help."
I shake my head, "You're helping by letting me stay here. There's nothing else that can be done."
"How can you be sure? I trusted you with the news about the missing prototype."
"I do trust you, Chad," I say.
An awkward pause. If I confide in Chad about Falcone, I can burry the other reasons deep down. On the other hand, if Chad decides I should go to the police, how can I ever face Bruce again after admitting I aided a criminal? The prospect of covering up my feelings, and hiding from them myself, wins.
I take a deep breath, "All right. I'll tell you. Do you remember the day you came in to get information on the microwave emitter? Well, I had some trouble of my own…"
I explain about Carmine Falcone, Jonathan Crane, and Salvatore Maroni, while leaving out all mention of either Bruce Wayne or Batman.
"I can't get Maroni's words out of my head," I say, "He practically implied that my father and he were…friends. It doesn't make any sense. My father refused to join the gang. That's why he was killed."
"Maybe it's not that simple," Chad says.
"Well, whatever it was, the secret died with him," I say mournfully, "There is no way I'm going back to Maroni for answers."
The doorbell rings.
Chad leaps up to get the door, swinging it wide open.
"Rose?' I ask, seeing her through the doorway.
"Lyn! What are you doing here?" Rose asks, pushing a package into Chad's arms and pulling me into a hug, "You look awful!"
I laugh, "Thanks. Makes me feel tons better."
"I'm just giving you the truth, dear," Rose says, holding me at arms length, "What happened?"
I sigh heavily again. Knowing I'll get no quiet until I tell her, and that Chad will probably repeat everything behind my back anyway, I go through the whole agonizing process again.
When I'm done, Rose looks worried, but not as alarmed as I had expected.
"You did the right thing," she says, "I don't care how much you think your actions were immoral or cowardly, or whatever. I think you did the right thing."
"I ran away, Rose," I say, "Both times."
"You kept people safe," Rose says, "That's all that matters."
"Joan said that too."
"Joan's insights are often correct."
"I should have been stronger," I say, "And better able to fight off thugs like Maroni. Instead I found myself playing the damsel in distress. I would look a fool in comparison to people like…that bat character."
"People like the bat man instigate trouble. Before he started disturbing the status quo the mob killed each other. Other than a few exceptions, people like The Russian or Falcone didn't touch us average civilians. Now people like you, Sam, and Lawrence are getting harassed because the bat man put the mob on alert," Chad argues.
Rose nods, "He hasn't killed anyone yet, but he's certainly put most of his victims in the hospital. It's only a matter of time."
"He wouldn't kill anyone," I protest, "And his 'victims' are only victims of their own choices."
"You think he won't, since he hasn't so far. But the problems have only just begun. The mob isn't going to just lay down and take this. There will be repercussions," Chad says, "Like you experienced."
"And do you deserve to be one of his victims because you helped the mob, however briefly?" Rose questions.
"Maybe I do," I say, "Maybe I need to learn how to protect myself, and others if need be. To fight, not flee."
"Fighting solves nothing," Rose warns.
"What do you suggest I do then? Return to the narrows and offer myself up as an informant?" I challenge.
"No. Get a new place in the better part of town. I know you can afford it," Chad says decisively.
"You're considering moving?" Rose asks, turning to me in surprise.
"I'm following Maroni's orders to stay away," I reply sourly, "Currently I'm living here."
"Here?" Rose asks. She and Chad exchange an unfathomable glance.
"Yeah," I say slowly, "Is that a problem?"
"Of course not," Rose says sweetly. She pulls me off the stool and into the living room. "I brought over some documentaries…watch them with us."
"That sounds relaxing," I say, smiling genuinely for the first time that evening.
Like always, the three of us lounge on Chad's wraparound couch, watching the movies. Occasionally we pause the picture and spark debates over facts or dates. For all appearances, it could have been your average Monday night.
Feeling comforted, I wrap one of the living room blankets tighter around my shoulders and sink farther into the couch. For now, I'll survive by faking blissful ignorance. Nonetheless, underneath the pretense of normality lies the uncomfortable truth: everything has changed, and not necessarily for the better.