I woke up this morning with my heart already beating too fast and a mood I couldn’t shake. The kind that clings to your skin like humidity. The kind of fast that makes your whole body feel wrong before you’ve even opened your eyes.

I dreamed about Blake last night. Again. I couldn’t remember all of it—just flashes. His eyes, his hands, his voice.

He was asking if I’d ever forgive him. He was crying. I was too.

And then he was gone.

I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time after waking up, my hands clenched around the sleeves of his old sweatshirt as if  I could physically hold all the panic in.

The panic didn’t hit right away—it crept in slowly. First my chest tightening, then the knot in my stomach, then the sudden, unbearable need to know he was okay. I stared at my phone for ten full minutes, thumb hovering over Tiffany’s contact. All I wanted to ask was: Has Jamal heard anything? Just tell me he’s alright.

I almost called her. I even typed out a text.

But I deleted it.

Just like I always did. Just like I always would.

What would be the point?

If he was okay, it’d only make me feel worse. And if he wasn’t—well. I don’t know what I’d do with that.

So I didn’t call. I didn’t text. Because asking meant caring.

And caring meant falling all over again.

I tossed the phone back onto the bed with a frustrated sigh and grabbed the ripped newspaper ad from the nightstand. ChimeIn Inc. The words looked just as weird as they had the first time I read them. My stomach churned, but I got dressed anyway.

The woman who answered the phone—Maxine, I think—sounded nice enough. A little too cheerful, maybe, as if she was trying to convince me this wasn’t a scam with enthusiasm alone. She asked me one question: “Can you be here Thursday at ten?” and ended the call with, “See you soon, lovely!”

And that was it. No questions. No information beyond a street name I had to ask Aiden to MapQuest for me. I probably should’ve done some research, but the idea of trekking to the library just to type “Is ChimeIn a scam?” into Ask Jeeves felt like too much effort.

So I pulled on my favorite Levi’s jeans, the only button-up I owned that didn’t scream hire me, I’m desperate, and twisted my hair up with a clip. Lip gloss. Minimal mascara just enough to look awake. A half-hearted pep talk in the mirror that I didn’t believe, all while tying up my Converse.

Mary peeked her head into my room, keys jingling in her hand. “You want me to drop you off, darling?”