Maggie didn’t seem to notice. She was gazing off into one of the darkened corners of the m, expression gone even more wistful. “I knew Dave loved me, you know,” she said, with a studied casualness to her tone. Whatever she was going to say, she was going to say it whether she got the right conversational prompts from me or not. I was an audience, not a participant. “But I was still getting over losing Buffy, and Dave and I, we were doing this… this weird circling thing, like we needed to figure out every single line of the script before we could even start the movie. I knew, and he knew, and we didn’t do a damn thing about it.” She sniffled. A very small sound that seemed loud in the sudden silence of the room. “It’s like we thought everything had to be perfect, or it wouldn’t work. Like it was a story.”

I wanted to say something, but there was nothing to say. I sat frozen, my fingers twitching slightly on the folder I still held. I wanted to reach for her. I wanted to take her hand. Only I knew it wasn’t her hand I wanted—the hand I wanted had been reduced to ash and chips of bone before being scattered down the length of California Highway 1—and so I didn’t move.

“Have you ever been in love?” Maggie looked back toward me, the faint light glittering off the tears running down her cheeks.

There’s never been a good answer to that question. I didn’t even try. I just shrugged.

“Love sucks,” said Maggie, and stood. “Everyone I fall in love with dies. Try to get some sleep tonight, okay, Shaun? And… thanks for listening. I can’t post that.” She chuckled, the sound barely managing to escape turning into a sob. “You know, it seems like every time I wind up with a real tragic love story to tell, I can’t post it. It wouldn’t have been fair to Buffy, and now it wouldn’t be fair to Dave. It’s… there’s so little that’s personal anymore.”

“Yeah,” I said, swallowing past the dryness in my throat. “I’m pretty sure he knew you loved him, too. He had this theater thing set up on the roof—”

“I know.” Her smile was brief, but it was real. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s not going to be any better.”

Can’t be any worse, muttered George.

I swallowed the urge to answer George, and said, instead, “I’ll try.”

“Good enough for me,” said Maggie, and turned to go, leaving me alone with my pile of folders, my tiny pool of light, and the voice of my sister echoing inside my head.

You used to make me sleep, said George.