I have only these, right now. This computer and this email. That’s all. And paper-thin walls through which I can hear Dad and Ma talk at night about my bright Columbia future. I’m not gambling the rest of my life on a single email I did not send.

SEND.

After a breath, I ignore the bile in my stomach and focus on steadying my hand from shaking, removing it from the mouse, one finger at a time. It’s done.

My mind reboots itself now on autopilot. I get to work clearing my digital fingerprints, deleting the email from the Sent folder. I then refresh, hoping for a quick reply from Michael Connelly so I can also delete that before Chantale sees it. The variation of a Thank you, I’ll keep an eye out on his file. A simple receipt of politeness that hopefully doesn’t allow for any back and forth.

I don’t think of Chantale Troy, the woman whose status and reputation I’ve wrongfully used for my benefit.

I don’t think about the invasion of this home that suddenly feels completely foreign to me again. I don’t think about Palm Tree now napping with his tongue out. I don’t think about Dad, Ma, or even Lion. I don’t think of the row of flash cards neatly assembled on a dresser a few dozen feet away, or of their owner.

I refresh over and over again, for what could be an hour or ten minutes, ready to sleep here if I have to until . . .

Hi, Chantale,

Henri sounds great! We’re down to the finish line in the upcoming class selection, but I will absolutely keep an extra eye out for the name. All the best, MC

Sent from my iPhone

Oh, my God. It worked. It’s not an in, but it’s close. Closer than I’ve ever been.

I delete the email before it can linger for a solitary second at the top of the in-box and again delete it from the Trash folder.

Later, I preheat the oven in our empty apartment, waiting for Ma and Dad to come home. I wash the potatoes, carefully peel them, and all the while think about Michael’s email.

This is what I’ve always wanted. I should be happy, right?

So then why do I feel nothing?

Twenty-Three

The little angel and devil on my shoulders—so loud and strident while I was typing that email yesterday—have now gone eerily quiet. They’ve relocated and are currently hanging upside down from my bedroom ceiling like bats, watching me without engaging. The two share a conspiratorial look whenever I’m about to fall asleep, jolting me back into full awareness, afraid of what they might be planning.