When I woke again it was daylight and the news was different. A banner at the bottom of the TV said Breaking and showed the image of a trollish man, a Hollywood muckety-muck, his fat, neckless face covered in a short, pubic beard. Weight announced itself inside me, or next to me, and I felt around, found my phone tucked in the pocket of the robe. Tucked there by me, or by someone else, I didn’t know. I opened the screen. Leah had texted “Got seventh” and a selfie with a purple ribbon. I stared, wanting, like maybe the screen was a wall I could move through, Leah on the other side. “How’s Naurene?” she’d added. The wall remained: impenetrable. I blinked, reached up and pulled my eyelashes, removed a strip of mink. The screen was a screen and any reply I sent would be the wrong one. I navigated to my photos folder, thinking maybe there were clues there. My phone had been upstairs, locked in the get-ready room all night, but I still expected it to give me answers. I opened the folder and just as fast, closed it. I opened Instagram, then closed it too. If there were answers, I didn’t want them. Or was afraid to know them. I pressed my mother’s number. “You’ve reached the cell phone of Naurene Wrey,” she said, straight to voicemail. Which I knew to expect. My mom was in the hospital, oblivious to my whereabouts; her phone was on the kitchen table where I’d left it, plugged into her charger. I had put myself in this position. I had wanted to be here. There was something like a sponge in my sternum, full and sogged, pressing. I stood. My legs shook, I had danced so much.