Four weeks later – Saturday morning. Julia is back in Georgia. Annabeth calls her.

"Hey Jules."

"Hey there. How you feeling?"

"Like I got shot."

"That's weird. Have you talked to the doctors about it?"

"Yeah. They say it's probably because I got shot."

"Makes sense."

"I miss you, Jules. It was nice having you around for a while."

"Annabeth, that makes it sound like we had a nice visit. I was there nursing you back to health after a near death experience."

"And you did such a good job. You can hear how not dead I am."

"You are aware that gallows humor is a coping mechanism, and not a very effective one in the long term?"

"I'm not sure I have any other coping mechanisms."

"Sure you do. Compulsive working; running away from emotional attachments; drinking."

"I don't drink."

Julie laughs. "Two out of three."

"I think that description may be better suited to Leo than me these days."

"Trouble in paradise?"

"I'm being serious, Jules. You saw it when you were still here."

"Yeah."

"I don't mind the work piece. I get that. But, when he is around. It's just different."

"I thought maybe it was because I was an awkward interloper."

"Apparently not because it hasn't gotten better since you left."

"I'm sorry, Annabee. What do you think's going on?"

"It feels like he doesn't know what to do with me now. Everything is serious and I think he's scared to touch me."

"Give him time. I was there in the hospital with him, and he was scared shitless."

"Yeah. I know."

"He wants to take care of you."

"I don't want to be taken care of."

"I know."

"You think that's a problem?"

"No. It's not a problem, but it might be a problem for Leo."

"Yeah. Do you know what I keep thinking about? Do you remember that time when we tried to make blueberry muffins that one Mother's Day?"

Julia laughs. "Oh God, that was a disaster."

"Exactly. We had no idea what we were doing. Not like Mom or anyone used the kitchen much. We were flying pretty blind."

"We had that cookbook, though. Remember? We got it from the library?"

"Oh, I remember. We were going to make the muffins for Mother's Day and then start our own business after that."

"What were we going to call it?"

"Our business? It was going to be JuBee Pastries. We thought we were very fancy saying pastries."

"That's right! We were so cosmopolitan, Annabeth."

"We sat in the kitchen the whole time they were in the oven, waiting for the timer to go off."

"Yeah. And then we couldn't figure out how to get the muffins out of the tin."

"Yes! We just stared at that thing like it was the space shuttle and we had suddenly been called upon to execute critical repairs mid-flight."

"There was a distinct feeling of panic."

"And frustration! Like, we had done everything right and now this stupid piece of metal was going to ruin everything."

"We mauled those muffins, Annabee."

"It was bad. They were not coming out of that tin without a fight and we went down swinging."

"So lemme guess. You're the muffins and Leo is the baker?"

"You know me too well."

"Yeah."

"But it does feel like that, Jules. Like Leo sat in that hospital waiting room waiting for the timer to go off. And we've done everything right, but he can't figure out what to do next. Like the me that emerged is just not what he expected. And I don't think I've changed. So, what has?"

"Maybe the fact that you almost died. I know you don't want to go there, Bee, but it's true."

"Do I have some choice I'm not aware of? Because it seems to me that my only option is to just keep going. Is curling up on the floor an option, because if so, let me know."

"No one wants you to curl up on the floor."

"Then what do you, what does he, want?"

"I can't speak for Leo, Annabee. What I want is for you to be safe. I want you to be safe and to reach your 100th birthday so that my 103rd year old ass can help you blow out the candles."

"Being safe means not being me."

"I know that. Which is why I can't have what I want."

"Are you angry at me?"

"No. But others pay a price, Annabee, for you being exactly who you are in exactly the way you want."

"It appears I pay a price, too."

"Yes, you do. The difference is that you are choosing to pay that price. The rest of us are merely along for the terrifying and possibly short ride."

"I did not choose to get shot! I am not responsible for violent misogynists and their fucked up…"

"Annabee. Easy."

"I'm not, Jules! I am not going to be made to feel guilty because some men are angry, violent monsters!"

"You are not responsible in any way for getting shot. The only person responsible for that is the man who shot you. But, Annabeth, there is no clever argument that gets us away from the fact that your brave, admirable, wonderful refusal to accept the world as it is comes with the very real possibility that you will be hurt. You aren't responsible for that reality, but it is the reality. And it is your choice to engage it. And it is not my choice to be left behind, holding onto a bag of your belongings in a hospital somewhere."