Mostly. A brown paper bag crinkled in her hand, but she’d forgone the liquor store for a late-open deli. Drink might’ve failed to drown her thoughts, but come hell or high water, she was going to eat her feelings in twelve inches of meatball marinara sub.

She grabbed a grape soda can, shut the fridge, and stared at the vintage Looney Tunes magnets and stolen stickers she’d used to decorate its door.

Foghorn Leghorn pointed up at a blue I Voted! sticker, something Yaya had never done. She doubted any cartoon characters had voted either and so didn’t judge herself too harshly. Her mother once said that everything had gone wrong after the ‘88 Presidential election, but Yaya had no basis for comparison.

Incubating in its test tube, the double-zero virus hadn’t yet touched her, every chimera’s third parent still working up the mood to fuck the world.

She sank onto her bed and began chugging soda. Her meatball marinara sandwich disappeared; she remembered beginning it and finishing it, but nothing between. She hadn’t even pulled out a plate, just yanked the sub from its bag and dove in. Had it been anyone else, she might’ve been proud of them, but now she felt bloated and sick.

Her phone thrummed once, a text message. At worst, it would be another ABP reminder. She dreaded it might be Doc, but deep down in her meatball-filled belly, Yaya kind of hoped for another text. Whatever was wrong with her, Doc had already been exposed.

But the phone did not show Doc’s number.

How are you? Mom’s text asked. Yaya cradled the phone in both hands, her vision starting to swim. Whether stress, alcohol, meatball marina, or her newfound condition, she couldn’t say, but Mom hammered one last nail in tonight’s coffin.

Yaya thought about breaking the distance barrier and doling out every awful detail in a giant text blob. It would be the most honesty she’d given in an eternity and the closest she’d felt to family since they’d moved and she’d stayed.

But time changed things, and sometimes the only decent answer to an innocuous text like How are you? was a likewise benign Good, you?

After a minute, Mom answered: Good too with a smiley face. Yaya stared at the phone, eyes blazing, but there was nothing more. She could sink into herself right then, imploding on her meatball dinner, and that would be less troublesome than awaiting another message.

Sauce coated the phone’s screen and case. It was all over her fingers and she hadn’t noticed. She took the phone to the bathroom, wiped it down, and then washed her hands. Her gaze darted to the mirror.

What was that color? Her head tilted at different angles, making sure this wasn’t some trick of the light. She leaned over the sink, nose almost touching its reflection. Her right eye had been green when she was little and turned hazel over puberty. Her left eye had always been bright blue. Now it looked darker and wreathed in violet.