“Better, right?”

“Smells…good…”

I swirl around. In the bed, Emerson blinks. Their eyes don’t focus on me, or on anything for that matter, but they turn their head toward the two of us—

And immediately wince. “Ouch. Hurts.”

“Are you okay?” I step closer toward them.

They raise their hand to their head, and the movement alone makes them look a paler shade of green. I dash out of the way in time before they vomit on the floor. It isn’t much—bile, mostly—but Nia immediately retches too. She says, “I’ll go…grab some cleaning supplies.”

Watching Emerson to see if they’ll let me, I reach out and push their hair out of their face. I’ve done this for Leah before too, even though Emerson’s hair is much shorter.

They moan. “God, it hurts.”

They lean into my hand a little, and I can see them slowly registering my presence. It’s different but familiar. They’re out of it because they had their head bashed in, and they probably have a concussion. But I recognize what it feels like when the world is too much, too overwhelming, and when you can’t connect with everything around you.

With their healthy arm, Emerson carefully reaches up to squeeze my hand and push it away.

“Logan… How are you?”

I crouch so I’m at eye level with them. I can’t tell them I’m okay—or not okay, as Nia would tell me—but I manage a smile.

“What happened?”

I can’t answer that with a smile. I don’t know how to answer it.

“How do you feel?” Nia leans against the door opening. She’s wearing bright-yellow gloves and carrying a bucket with water and cleaning supplies. She indicates with her head, and I get out of the way so she can move past me and clean up the bile.

She answers Emerson’s questions where I can’t. She tells them about Josie, about running into me when I went to get Grace. She tells Emerson what happened to them. I take over her place in the door opening, and I wish I could do all the talking for me. Or not even the talking, necessarily, but the explaining. I wish it were easier for people to understand what Leah does, what Nia does: there are many different ways to communicate.

Emerson clears their throat and catches my eye. “Thank you…for finding help.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. I’m sorry I—” I don’t know what else to say.

Nia squints at me and shakes her head. “It wasn’t your fault, you know?” She turns back to Emerson. “Thank you for helping Logan. I don’t know what I would’ve done without her in the kitchens.”

She’s wrong. It was my fault. But her words feel good. They feel right. I’ve never felt wanted before, not by anyone who wasn’t Leah, and she is a part of me. I like being in the kitchen with Nia. It may not be quite the same as a place to belong, but it’s a place where I can make myself useful and where I understand the world around me.