"I'm going to school tomorrow," Lane hissed into the phone.

"Really?" Rory's tone jumped on the other end.

"I know, I can't believe it either!"

"You know, some kids would see two weeks out of school as a biblical-level blessing."

"Not when they're only skipping school because their mother grounded them from experiencing daily life due to sneaking off on Picnic Day to not date a perfect prep-school-attending future Korean doctor."

"Lane," Rory said, "you have got to stop calling Henry perfect."

"But he so is."

"No, he's not. Okay? The fact that he ditched you and is taking Brittany Stiles to the prom instead is hard proof of that."

"Her name is Brittany?" Lane stared into her empty tea-and-milk mug on her bedroom desk, trying not picture a bottle blonde with flawless legs in a short, plaid Chilton skirt. It wasn't easy. The name Brittany evoked all kinds of cliches.

"Yes, and don't worry, she's about as compelling as the toast you're chewing in my ear," Rory assured her.

"Sorry." Lane set the toast back down on its dish.

Rory always knew what she was thinking. "Trust me. Brittany's nice, but she's kind of...well—can you think of a better word than bimbo?"

"Nothing I'm allowed to say under this roof. And even bimbo's pushing it."

"Last week she forgot how to spell monolith, so. Even Chilton isn't airhead-free. If you'd met Madeline you'd understand."

"Thanks," Lane said, swallowing her toast. It didn't actually make her feel better, knowing Henry's new girlfriend's full name—or her general IQ level—but it did make her feel better that Rory was trying to ease the pain. "I better go. The last customer just left before lunch break and I should probably help Mama Kim do the dishes."

"Feeling guilty about last week's CD drop?"

"That, and if I don't bring my dishes down within fifteen minutes after the start of the digestion process, she comes searching."

Lane hung up and instantly missed the sound of phone static and Rory's voice. Two weeks of grounding had taken its toll on her psyche. Her bedroom was an echo chamber, the stairwell was too creaky, the cars going by the shop weren't loud enough. It had gotten to the point where the haggling of antiquers downstairs was actually pleasant to her. Any stimulation—any chance at socializing—was a gift.

Maybe her ancestors had been some form of professional jail warden. Mrs. Kim was all too good at crime and punishment.

When she went downstairs, her mother was already elbow-deep in suds at the sink. No music playing, no shuffling of feet. The sign on the front door had been turned around—Kim's Antiques was closed for lunchtime. Mrs. Kim was rigid in the kitchen, and Lane wondered if she herself would ever grow up to be that straight of posture, or that boring of temperament.

"Hey, Mama," she said softly, sidling in to the second basin. "Sell anything yet?"

"Two doorknockers," Mrs. Kim replied shortly. "Matching set."

"The ones with the flowers?"

"The ones with the rust."

"Oh. Well." Lane nodded. Too much. Her head was like a cheap McDonald's toy. "That's good."

Mrs. Kim placed a dripping, sparkling dish onto the mat in front of her daughter. Lane instinctively reached for the drying towel, trying and failing to catch Mrs. Kim's eye. Apparently the worn, yellow sponge scrubbing the bone china plates was hypnotic. Her mother neither looked at her nor initiated any further conversation. She was totally absorbed in soaking toast crumbs.

Lane wasn't sure what had made Mama Kim decide it was time for her to re-enter society. After the Henry debacle, the most socialization she'd been allowed to have had been Rory's phone call and the Psalm-a-Day hotline. If she was lucky, that might also include any hellos the townsfolk may have dared toss their way when the Kims went out on errands. Lane wasn't allowed to eat anything with sugar during a grounding, not even fruit. She wasn't allowed to go outside unless she was taking the trash out or walking with her mom. She wasn't even allowed to do her homework in her room anymore—she had to do it at the dining room table, where she could be monitored should she decide to snap, break through the glass of the kitchen window, and run screaming to Doose's for another illegal picnic basket, on the prowl for unsuspecting teenage boys to elope with.

Everything was strained, everything was quieter than usual, and everything, even her calls to Rory, still had a background hum of accusation to it.

Mrs. Kim had watched her cry all the way up the stairs on Picnic Day, coming home after being stopped by Jess outside the pizzeria. She'd explained her rules backward and forward, she'd invited Lane to eat about seven times before bed and Lane hadn't touched so much as a grain of rice. She'd talked about American boys and respect and she'd done everything but command Lane to stop crying and heaving every five minutes until she fell asleep.

And even after she'd learned Henry was Korean, and Henry wanted to be a doctor, and Henry was taking someone else to prom—even after Mrs. Kim had discovered just how royally Lane had screwed her life up in the course of one afternoon—her mother had stuck to the terms of her grounding like it was a law passed by the President himself.

But now there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

Maybe Mrs. Kim had decided two weeks of solitude and aching for future Dr. Cho was finally punishment enough. Maybe she had seen Lane counting the stains in the living room ceiling one too many times and decided to relent. Or maybe two weeks had always been the plan, and she was just operating off of that Mrs. Kim trademarked calendar in her head.

The last one was most likely.

Lane began scrubbing at the dripping plate. "I talked to Rory today," she began again.

Silence.

"I kept to the five-minute deadline. Actually I even think I was under it this time, so. That's gotta show improvement on the words-per-minute scale."

More silence.

Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn't they be like Lorelai and Rory? Or even Dorothy and Sophia? Lane turned to watch the towel getting darker as she dried the next dish and held back an almighty sigh. Her mother had never been bubbly, never been chatty. When she did crack a joke, it took a while to understand, and even then, if you laughed it was too late. She'd moved on.

At the Gilmore house, there was endless jabbering. There was teasing and junk food and shared clothing. Nobody did the dishes because takeout was forever an option. Glorious, fatty takeout. Nobody got grounded. When Rory looked in a mirror, she wanted to see traces of her mother there. The sole person on Earth who was closer than Lane to Stars Hollow's golden child was Lorelai. Talking was easy and hugging was easy and nothing was strained. The Gilmore girls were inseparable by choice. The Kims were inseparable by force.

Lane glanced again at Mrs. Kim. It was like looking at a robot. Or a cardboard cutout of her mom. Her brain scrambled to fill the silence. One part Dead Kennedys lyrics, one part worry. The worry would not be smothered by Pull My Strings. Lane stared at her mom, drying the same plate over and over.

Is she still mad at me?

Soggy bulgogi is really gross.

Why won't she look at me?

It's because of Henry. It's because I lied.

Stupid loser faker liar—

This towel is already too wet.

I had to lie. She would've said no.

She didn't have to. Henry said no.

She has to still be mad.

At least she's letting me go back to school.

I need a new towel.

My life is pathetic.

She's still mad.

"Mama," Lane blurted, trying to be louder than her head, "I just want you to know, I'm really glad I'm going back to school tomorrow."

Mrs. Kim stopped washing.

Lane almost winced, rushing to cover what sounded too much like joy over the end of the grounding. "Because I've learned my lesson," she added. "And now I can...go to school and—study hard and—and really appreciate all the extra contemplative time that comes with a boy-free existence, you know?"

Don't say boy-free. Don't remind her.

"I mean," she said, louder still, "these last two weeks really helped me see where my priorities should be."

"Good." Mrs. Kim set down the next wet saucer. Hard.

Lane fumbled to start drying it. "And—"

"Lunch break over." Mrs. Kim turned, erect as a fence post, and moved toward the doorway, presumably to flip over the Closed sign. "Time to polish."

"I'm sorry."

She blurted that, too.

Mrs. Kim paused.

"For lying," Lane went on, lips like cotton. Why was her mouth so dry all of a sudden? "And...everything."

Mrs. Kim turned around. Only halfway. "I make these rules for a reason."

"I know."

"You live in this house, you respect my rules."

"Yes, Mama."

"Good." Mrs. Kim hesitated, mouth open, like she wanted to tack something onto that one syllable. Then her eyes drifted to the rag in Lane's hand. "Get a new towel. That one's filthy."

Then she left to reopen the store.

Lane was alone in the musty kitchen, one side of the sink full of soapy water, a wet towel swinging from her hand. She'd been stuck in her antique-shop house for fourteen straight days with a telescope and the Psalm-a-Day line. Mrs. Kim had barely spoken to her beyond getting her to eat and making sure her homework was done. Lane's CDs were under every loose floorboard in her bedroom and clothing with any kind of logo or actual color in it was buried in the darkest spaces of her closet. Mrs. Kim was quieter than usual and the two of them tiptoed around each other every day, exactly like they had her whole life. Only for the past two weeks the tiptoeing had been quicker. Because of a boy and a picnic basket and some fake tattoos. She'd even missed school. Her mom frowned every time she spoke.

Good.

Good, Mrs. Kim had said.

Yeah.

This was as good as they were ever going to get.

The sun was obnoxiously bright against his back as Jess headed up the diner steps. Every day at exactly 3 PM, this little hick town got baked, apparently regardless of the time of year. And the walk from the high school to Luke's happened to be without shade. Unless he took the shortcut through the gazebo, which was not happening. He never intended to be under, in, or within spitting distance of anything resembling a gazebo for the rest of his natural life. Too many traumatic Sound of Music flashbacks from that time Liz dated a musical theater dropout when he was ten.

Technically he didn't have to make this tiny trek every weekday. It was becoming more and more obvious to him that Stars Hollow High, though small, was exactly as optional as school in the city had been. Nobody noticed back then if he skipped a few classes. Or a week of them.

Here, there was less of a herd to get lost in, but he was basically invisible anyway, so it all levelled out. The only time anyone paid him any mind were the times he was fighting, stealing, or trying to read uninterrupted. As long as he kept his hands to himself and his nose out of something paperback—paperback and infinitely more interesting than the world around him—he was practically nonexistent to these people.

He could moonwalk extravagantly from the diner's kitchen to Woodbridge wearing a glittery glove a false nose and no one would bat an eye.

Except maybe good ol' Uncle Luke, he reminded himself on his way past Caesar and up the stairs. Luke, for some reason, always had to ask Jess where he was going lately whenever he left. Even if it was just to the bathroom. Jess wasn't used to being checked up on.

When he came into the apartment above the diner, Luke was on the phone, so he was spared the awkward, gnosiophobic grilling for the moment. Jess went straight for the fridge, skipping the milk and reaching for a glass dish of half-finished chicken pot pie.

"Yeah," Luke was saying distractedly. He had the phone shoved between shoulder and ear and was flipping through some kind of catalog or paperwork. Didn't matter which. "He just came in, actually."

Jess didn't look around. Anybody on the phone for him in this town was not calling to hook up or hang out, and he wasn't eager to acquire another earful about Babette's nightmarish lawn gnomes or graffiti on the sidewalk.

Luke suddenly jerked the phone away from his head. "Geez, Liz, all right—yeah, he's right here—"

Then Jess looked. Luke was gesturing at him like a madman, shoveling a hand from one end of the room to the other. C'mere, c'mere. Jess shook his head, the picture of disinterest.

Liz was on the other end. This was the second time she had called since he'd arrived in Stars Hollow. He could've been swallowed whole by a bargain bin in the county fair last week and she wouldn't have known he was digested till today. He'd rather debate Babette about Pierpont's civil rights.

Luke covered the receiver with a hand. "It's your mom."

"No thanks."

"She really wants to talk to you."

"I'm busy," Jess said, stabbing a fork into the pot pie. Liz hadn't wanted to talk to him since he had mastered the alphabet. Playskool singing tractors only got you so far in life without Mommy's help.

"Jess, c'mon."

"Nope."

Luke pressed his palm harder to the phone. "She practically shrieked my ear off when you came in here, now either take the phone and answer her or that pie goes out the window."

"Be my guest."

"Jess—"

"Too many carrots." Jess held up the entire glass pie dish, bouncing his eyebrows.

Luke glared at him and raised the phone back up to his head. "Liz? ...Nah, he's gonna have to call you back, uh—"

Suddenly Jess could hear her bursting out of the speaker. He couldn't tell what she was saying, but he could tell it was a whine. She sounded desperate. Good. Let her stew for a little while. Let her learn how it felt to be waiting for something other than the ending of a seven-year-old voicemail message with a drunk construction worker in the background when you picked up the landline.

She kept going for another few seconds, incoherent. It was loud. Luke was back to holding the phone at a distance. Jess chewed, eyes on the transmitter. She really wants to talk to you.

Fixing his gaze firmly on the pie after a good eyeroll, he held out a hand.

Luke's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he had the wisdom to keep his mouth shut after cutting his sister off with a quick, "Oh wait, uh, actually here he is—"

Jess felt his uncle pointedly not watching him as he took the phone.

"What?" he said on a sigh, which was an improvement on his usual grunt-greetings.

"There he is!" Liz crooned, and a stretched feeling got kicked up in his chest. His mother seemed bubbly and distracted. He half expected the charming scents of booze to drift out of the receiver. Then again, you could never tell with her. "Hey, do you want this...Circle Jerks tee shirt?"

"What?" he said again, different inflection, blinking.

"You got three of 'em, can I toss 'em or are you keeping one?"

"Toss 'em?"

"The Circle Jerks. That's a band, right?"

"What are you doing?" Jess demanded, hearing shuffling and thunking in the background. He also heard something rip, something cotton. It was all very animated. Like Liz had camped out inside a Looney Tunes cartoon.

"Well, I'm tryna see if you need all this stuff or if I can get rid of it by five; I'm losin' daylight here."

"What stuff?"

"The stuff, your stuff, all this crap in the other room."

"My room?"

"Yeah, Goodwill van's comin' at five, it's all in boxes. I asked 'em if they accept laundry baskets or if they did that thing where you bring it in laundry baskets and then they think you wanna give away the laundry baskets, I just meant to carry the stuff in, but the guy got all confused, acted like it was a nutty question, can you believe that? I think I scared him." Liz paused for breath, he heard a papery sound, and then she said almost to herself, "Well this can't be a keeper, there's barbecue or somethin' on it."

"Do not give my stuff to Goodwill," Jess growled.

"Wait. It might be soy sauce. Do you like soy sauce, I can't remember."

"Do not give my stuff to Goodwill," he repeated, louder.

Luke looked up from the catalog.

"Well, it's all gotta get outta here by five, I gotta make room."

Jess, as usual, was beginning to feel like he was having a conversation straight out of a Lewis Carroll-style acid trip. He stood up from the table, pie unfinished, and turned his back toward his uncle's recliner, glaring at one of the walls. "Make room for what?"

"For all the crafty stuff," Liz replied, like it should be obvious. "Knives and sanders, Barley's bringing it in tonight, gave him a key and everything."

"Barley," Jess said rather than asked. He was asking too many questions. He was using too many syllables. The stretched feeling in his chest was getting longer, heavier. He tried to tamp it down, focusing on the stupid wallpaper.

"I'm tellin' ya, he's the one," Liz slurred. "Great acting chops, great hair, and you should see him whittle."

"Whittle."

"Yeah, he's an A+ whittler, he's in the renaissance circuit, goofy place to work. We met at the drug store last month. Smells like a god. I got some of his stuff on the mantle now, makes it feel all rustic in here, you know? Little bears. Like I'm in that show with the farm with the gay name, Creek-something? What's it called."

Jess pressed two fingers to his temple. He didn't have a migraine. Just the stretching. The longer Liz babbled, the more the stretching happened. He could feel Luke watching him now, unashamed. All at once, Liz seemed too loud, like a fire alarm on low battery. Every other word was irritating white noise.

"This is why you called," he stated. Fact.

Liz suddenly huffed through her nose, like he was the one wasting time. "Jess, I'm gonna need both hands here, are you keeping the Circle Jerks or not?"

"Yes."

"What about this other stuff?"

"Yes."

"Even all these CDs, the crooked shelf—hey, he could use that—"

"No."

"Well—" The sound of her slapping at her hip in drunken, matronly exasperation. "What do you want me to do?"

"Ship it here," Jess told her, enunciating every word like she was a toddler.

"You want me to tape up alllll this crap and ship it to Stars Hollow? All of it?"

"Look, do whatever you want, okay?" Jess straightened, pushing and shoving inwardly at the stretched sensation his chest still seemed stuffed with. "Ship it here, throw it out, give it to Barley the Whittle Master, whatever. I don't care anymore."

"Great, now I gotta go out and buy some more tape," Liz complained, in a voice she probably perceived as resting under her breath. "Wonder if there's so—"

Jess hung up and threw the phone at Luke. Luke, blatantly listening, barely caught it. His nephew went for the door, snatching his coat off the hook as he went by.

"Woah, woah, where you goin'?" Luke checked, scrambling up.

"Get some air," Jess muttered through his teeth, yanking open the door.

Luke closed it with one hand on the glass window. "Ho, hold on there, wait a minute, what happened? Is she shippin' it over, or...?"

"Who knows?"

"Well, what'd she say?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Jess."

"I stopped listening." Jess shrugged, pulling his mouth down in an exaggerated motion.

"So—" Luke leaned on the door, putting all his weight on that one hand so Jess couldn't rip it open if he tried. His uncle gestured with a palm that was ever-circling in the air, vaguely. "Walk me through this. You answered, she says hello, then what?"

"She didn't say hello."

"What did she say?"

"Barley's movin' in."

"Who's Barley?"

"How should I know?"

"I mean is that a dog, a parrot, a person, a junk food, what?"

"My guess is a person, but hey, it's Liz. Wouldn't rule out the parrot thing, got about as much brainpower as the guys she usually drags home, right?" The moment Luke pulled his other hand away from the glass to do some more gesturing, Jess gave a jerk on the doorknob and opened the door.

"Wait, wait, Jess—" Luke followed him out into the hall. "Did she say anything else?"

"Like what?" Jess began hauling his coat on, halfway to the stairs.

"I-I don't know, like..." The diner man glanced at the opposite wall, the ceiling, looking for words. "I-I-Is she sending you clothes for summer, did she ask about school...?"

"Please, it's Liz," Jess spat. "We're lucky she remembers to wash her socks on a weekly basis."

Luke nodded, and Jess saw him exhale hard through his nose. Like he was mad now. "Look, uh. Doesn't matter. We'll, we'll go out tomorrow. Get you some stuff."

"No thanks."

"Jess." Luke trailed after him to the top of the stairs, watching his nephew descend. "Jess!"

"Don't wait up."

Jess slammed the diner door when he exited the building, taking the steps two at a time. Finished buttoning his coat without looking. He'd forgotten his book—he didn't know if he'd left it on the table or what; it wasn't in his back pocket anymore.

He realized he was breathing harder than necessary. Jess shut his mouth with a click, letting it puff out through his nose like Luke had. Nobody needed to take him to get anything. He was fine with what he had. No one needed to tape anything, ask any questions, follow him to the exit. If he could just be left alone—

The stretched feeling in his chest wouldn't go away. Jess stormed across the street, near the gazebo but never under it, not looking much where he was going. He was not heading back to get his book. Besides, marching around might alleviate some of the pressure on his lungs.

She really wants to talk to you.

Nothing to kick. No one to hit. The sight of Taylor's crates of unnaturally-bright apples made him want to set the place on fire. Why couldn't anything in this town look less like Mister Rogers might come strolling by any second?

The stretching got worse when Liz spoke to him. He couldn't ever tell what exactly it meant. But Liz brought it on, for as long as he could remember. When she called, when Luke mentioned her name, when he came home from school as a kid and she wasn't in the apartment, no note, no nothing, pot-smell everywhere. When he had to go to bed alone and make sure all the doors and windows were locked; Liz had a key, however long she might be gone. Ritz crackers for dinner, no clean jeans for tomorrow. Stretch, stretch, stretch.

His spatula enthusiast of an uncle and his persistent where are you goings didn't make it go away. But it did change, sometimes. It got tenser. And Jess didn't know how to make it stop—all he could do was get away from Luke. Get away and relish the fact that diner boy was probably imagining all kinds of Three Stooges-level shenanigans he was getting into unsupervised.

Jess narrowly avoided colliding with a street lamp, gritting his teeth. He tried to picture Liz asking him anything about himself. Anything at all. He tried to imagine what he'd say back.

School sucks. Town sucks. Luke should be admitted. No friends. One. Korean. No job. Not really. Part-time table bussing. Six bucks an hour.

This wasn't working. The stretching only stretched further. New tactic. He tried to imagine asking her questions. Tried to imagine she would listen. Tried to imagine it mattered to her that he was the one asking. What couldn't he ask then?

Why'd you ditch me here? How did you stand this place? Who names their kid Barley? Why don't you call more? Why didn't you want me home at Christmas? How long do I have to be here? When can I come back? What do I have to do?

That really wasn't working.

Whatever. The feeling would pass. It always did. The delay time might vary, but the level of certainty that he could get over it never did.

"Your lips are blue."

"No they're not, Mama."

"You're shivering."

"I'm not, I swear."

"Don't swear."

"Sorry."

Jess paused, halfway off the sidewalk. He'd gotten close enough to one side of the square to hear the conversation between two pedestrians across the street. Lane and her mother were stopping at a corner, at least two cars' worth of distance from him. (If this place ever really used cars.)

He hadn't seen Lane since the fever dream that had been Picnic Day. She hadn't been in school; the teachers gave vague explanations; said she had come down with something highly contagious. He knew she wasn't sick. Maybe she had started sick, maybe over getting dumped, who knew? But it couldn't have lasted two weeks. This was some kind of utilitarian crackdown from her jail warden. A brainwashing or something. He hadn't given it much thought outside of knowing there was going to be even less stimulation for him in English class now that virtually the only person he ever talked to wasn't sitting in front of him.

There she was, looking hale and healthy and harassed beside her mother in the wind. They were about to cross over to the market, he could tell, but had waited at the pass like the stop signs actually meant anything here.

Mrs. Kim glowered at Lane, and then said, "Here."

Then she took off her massive, strict gray coat with the high collar and held it out.

Lane glanced around briefly, not widely enough to notice Jess. "Really, Mama, I'm—"

"Arm."

Like someone had pressed a button, Lane obediently held out one arm. Her mother helped her into the coat and zipped it up herself. Quick, precise hands went into raising that high collar, brushing off imaginary lint, smoothing out the wrinkles. Lane was drowning in the woolly fabric. She looked like a five-year-old. Even from here, Jess could see her face getting peach-colored with embarrassment. He felt his mouth twitching.

Mrs. Kim looked her daughter up and down. "Warmer?"

Lane's eyes darted to the ground. "Yes ma'am." It was almost too quiet to hear, resigned. "Much better."

Mrs. Kim nodded, once, and led the way down the street.

Jess watched them go, standing stock-still. And then the stretched feeling yawned wider and almost knocked the oxygen out of him.

Even after he crossed to the other sidewalk, even after he put distance between himself and the gazebo and the diner, he kept glancing almost involuntarily over his shoulder. Following the Kims with his eyes and head as they made their way toward Doose's. More than that—he kept looking at that coat, or at Mrs. Kim's hands, clenched at her sides. Like a soldier. At Lane's hair as the wind tossed it around, playing with it because it couldn't reach the rest of her anymore.

Jess stopped, leaning with his back against another street lamp. Maybe there was a box of Camels left over in his jacket somewhere; that was the next best kind of entertainment now without his book. Anything to snag his attention. The stretching would go away.

It always went away. Eventually.

Lane wished the asphalt would swallow her up. She was going back to school in twenty-four hours, for goodness' sake. And here she was, out where everyone could see her, clad in Mommy's enormous, blocky, polish-scented jacket. She couldn't even see her feet when she glanced down.

At least they were going to the market. She could hide behind Betty Crocker and toothpaste. Behind the same shelf.

But Mrs. Kim wanted fruit first. Because of course she did.

So as her mother paused outside in front of the apple crate, inspecting each individual fruit, Lane shuffled and tried to shrink behind the flower stand. She couldn't feel the wind anymore, but she could feel people looking at her the longer she stood there. And obviously, there was no chance she'd get to remove the coat before re-entering Kim's Antiques for dinner. Mrs. Kim had decided Lane needed an extra layer, and that was that. There was no arguing, there was no haggling, there was no escape.

Then she saw Jess across the street. He was leaning against a lamppost, smoking. Smoking. As in, an actual cigarette was in his actual mouth. She didn't think she'd ever seen an actual cigarette before. Not in Stars Hollow.

Suddenly Jess' eyes met hers and Lane pursed her lips, wishing more than ever she could be eaten by the ground. She hoped her expression made it seem like she was laughing at her own misfortune, but she seriously doubted it did.

Jess looked steadily back, almost like he wasn't actually seeing her. He had barely reacted to the sight of her after two weeks of absence. No surprise there; it would have been an act of suicide to say hello. Any second now, Mrs. Kim was going to smell that cigarette and go on the warpath. She'd punt Lane straight through Doose's window, away from airborne bad decisions and bad influences.

Jess didn't have to get shoved into someone else's three-sizes-too-big windbreaker. Jess didn't have anyone following him around, or locking him in the house for two straight weeks. He didn't have anyone telling him where to be, or how to dress, or what to like. He was just standing there rotting his lungs from the inside out.

Completely, totally free.

And she was having a paper bag pressed into her hands, she was opening it and holding it out like somebody's maid, feeling every spotless apple as it was dropped inside. Wishing she could throw it to the ground, rip the coat off, and tell Mrs. Kim she was not cold and couldn't they just talk, couldn't things just change, because they hadn't spoken more than a few sentences to one another ever since washing the dishes and Lane couldn't take it much longer.

She couldn't do that. She could take it. She had to.

Because she didn't have a choice.

Lane followed Mrs. Kim into the market, ignoring Taylor's greeting, watching out the window as Jess smoked against a lamppost for the rest of the shopping trip.