It’s late by the time I get home. Herman’s engine putters for a few beats after I switch off his ignition, sort of like a final, pleased burp after a meal, reminding me he’s due for the car equivalent of a colonoscopy. I sit for a moment in the stillness of the garage, running my hand over a rip in the gray vinyl of the driver’s seat. I’ve taken to patching these with Dermabond, one of the rejiggered forms of superglue emergency departments use in place of stitches, and it looks like Herman could use another batch of the stuff.

I need this moment of stillness. Tonight required an obscene amount of adrenaline: for me, there could be no more draining trifecta of events than navigating the ordeal of public speaking, an overwhelming social scene, and the emotionally charged memories I’d resurrected. My battery is spent: I slump against the seat back, feeling the sluggish thrum of blood through my carotids. My mind congeals in a paste of flickering images and twisted fragments of conversation. This happens to me every time I have to interact with a considerable number of people at once; afterward, my brain replays the highlights and the lowlights, torturing me with grotesque, misshapen representations of how I must have looked and sounded, until finally my mind winds its way through some sort of filtering process and allows me to rest.

I’m weird; I know.

When I rouse myself enough to trudge into the house, I’m expecting to bump my way through the darkness of the tiny mudroom, but to my surprise as the door swings open I’m greeted with a rectangle of cheery yellow light spilling from the kitchen. The pendant above the island must be switched on.

In the kitchen, Rorie sprawls across three stools, her butt on the nearest one and her long slender legs stretched across the others. She’s sipping something steamy from a brown mug she made at a kiln in Africa when she was small; it’s hideous, but naturally I’ve never been able to part with it. She sets down the drink as I drop my handbag onto the counter.

“Madre,” she says easily, arching her back and stretching. She’s wearing teeny lacy shorts and a giant sweatshirt with the word KALE emblazoned across the front in blocky collegiate lettering. Her hair is frizzy and gloriously unkempt.

“Hey, you,” I say. “What are you doing up? And what are you drinking?”

She nods toward the lumpy cup. “I couldn’t sleep, so I made tea.”

“Hmm,” I say. The only tea on the shelf is Zest Black, which I bought last year during a stretch of all-nighters because it advertises itself as having extra caffeine. I glance in Rorie’s cup, and sure enough, she’s already downed half of it. “You know what would help more? Warm milk.”